


Sharing Mugs

by Jakixarv



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Fluff, Gen, Nonbinary Character, This is me being self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakixarv/pseuds/Jakixarv
Summary: Dan is living what they want to do, in New York City.  Loneliness is consistently creeping at their door, for one reason or another.  They're dealing with it.Also, Spider-Man might live in the flat above them, but that's fine.  They're doing fine.





	1. Chapter 1

The tenant in the flat above them was Spider-Man.

               It wasn’t hard to figure it out—they didn’t have to do any figuring at all, really, considering early on into Dan’s own tenancy the vigilante had fallen with a _clang_ onto the fire escape, right outside the kitchen window as they’d settled in to enjoy some tea.

               They sat in silence for several seconds, staring at one another, before Dan raised their hand in a little wave.  A gesture which, after a wince that favored his shoulder, Spider-Man returned.

               And now Dan was back at their kitchen table sipping their tea, only with a tired Spider-Man sat leaned against the wall beneath said window.

               The silence was amicable, broken only by the occasional ragged breath from the injured guest.  Until it felt awkward, of course.

               “I’m sure I could dredge up some first aid knowledge, you know,” Dan’s brow knit, “if you want.”

               “It’s,” he coughed again, “it’s fine.  Promise.  I heal up pretty quick, no problem.”

               “Hmm,” they cocked their head, mouth quirked up at one corner, “well, if you need, this guy was a lifeguard way back in the day,” they stuck a thumb into their chest.  “Red Cross and everything.”

He breathed out a laugh at that.  “’Preciate it.”  They were getting somewhere, at least.  Dan stood up, making their way over to the counter to brew some more tea.

               “Should I ask about the other guy?”  They relaxed into the routine of setting out the kettle, taking out tea (he would like chamomile, right?  Not much choice, they didn’t have anything else), and preparing two mugs this time.

               “ _Guys_ , more like,” Spider-Man huffed out, “and yeah, I suppose I got the job done.  I had to make an…early exit.  But the cops got there and had it sorted.”  There was the slide of his suit’s material against the wall as he shifted to face Dan more.

               Dan set their hands flat on the counter, staring down at the mugs of steeping tea.  More shifting came from the vigilante behind them.  “You ever take a break?”  They looked back over their shoulder to see him standing, now, leaning against the window sill.

               He looked at a point on the wall across the kitchen before letting out a sigh.  “No one committing the crimes seems to take any.”

               “Yeah, suppose so,” they rolled their eyes, “but you’re one guy.  And it’s not all on you.”

               He crossed his arms, head lolling back to stare at the ceiling, “I’m aware.”  He rolled his head to level a stare at them, “do _you_ ever take a break?”

               _Petulant?_ They smirked at that, shaking their head a bit.  “Probably too many, by your standards.”

               “Ah, well, it’s pretty difficult to be worse than me, so that’s almost certainly untrue.”  He _tsk_ ed and shook his index finger.

               Dan squinted.  “Well, here’s a break, from me to you.  Not really in my power to grant, but hey.”  They took one mug and slowly, carefully, brought it over to the vigilante.

               He stared at it a moment, glancing twice between it and Dan’s face, before unfolding his arms and accepting the tea.

               Dan returned to their perch on the counter, picking up their own mug and warming their hands on it.

               A few more moments passed where he didn’t touch it, but eventually he reached up to pull the mask past his mouth, revealing grey stubble and defined frown lines.  Dan looked away.

               “You’re a—you’re good, I hope you know that.” They let the steam fog up their glasses, staring at the tea.  Eye contact was important for sincerity, but Dan was never really good at either of those things.

               He didn’t respond, as expected, so Dan kept avoiding looking at the vigilante in the room.

               Until he did, hesitantly, like he was unused to this sort of discussion.  “Knowing something and feeling it to be true usually…happen separately.”

               “Ain’t that the truth.”  This conversation felt closed, wrapped up, no loose ends.  Perfect point for Dan to make an out.  "Well, mister Spider-Man, this has been, uh, really cool, but I need to go to bed and--I'm sure you need sleep, too."

               With a sigh, he nodded, and said, “uh, right.  I do.  Need that,” he sighed again.  “Thank you for the tea, and, uh, finding me on your fire escape.”

               “No worries, man.  You can take your time, just…get the mug back to me whenever you can?”  It was no rush.  Dan had too many mugs, anyway.

               The vigilante slipped out the window with a grace Dan wished they had.  “Have a nice night, uh…”

               They nodded, “Dan.  And you, mister.  Take a break once in a while?”

               He pulled his mask back down over his mouth, gingerly picking up the mug of tea.  “No guarantees.”  And with that, he was gone.

              

 

               When they woke up the next morning the mug was sat on the sill outside their window, washed and with a note tucked underneath.

               _Ta, bruv._

               Huh.

 

               Dan was walking out of their apartment building when someone else’s shoulder collided with their own.  “Pardon,” they bit out, and heard a similar sentiment in response.

               They walked a few more feet before looking back to catch a glimpse of the person they’d passed.  They’d had a lot of weight behind them, judging by the bump they gave Dan.  They caught a glimpse of someone tall and broad, dressed only in a worn white shirt and equally weathered jeans, before they disappeared into the building.

               With a huff, Dan readjusted their shoulder bag and went on their way.


	2. Offers Still Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's happened again, only this time Spider-Man has a heckin' injury. He's a bit rude and Dan's trying really hard to play it cool to the point of near-complete detachment.

               Dan wouldn’t have made the connection that the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man was so literally their neighbor had a similar situation not happened _again_ , _almost_ _immediately_.

               The clang of the impact made them jump so hard it sent a thick line of ink across their page.  Steeling nerves with a deep breath, they stood and crept through the short hallway to the kitchen.

               Spider-Man was the first to wave this time, when they saw him lying haphazardly on the fire escape.

               I think,” he was talking before they’d even finished opening the window, “I think I need that first aid knowledge now.  If—if the offer’s still…” he all but threw himself into the apartment, landing with a _thunk_ on the linoleum, feet still caught on the sill outside.  “Heck,” he mumbled into the floor.

               “Uh,” Dan’s brow furrowed, “yeah, yeah it is, one sec,” they made for the bathroom, pausing for a moment to fill a glass of water and set it next to the man.

               It had only been a few days since the last time this guy had so unceremoniously graced their windowsill, but in that time they’d sorted through the stuff in their first-aid kit and restocked whatever they were lacking.  Grabbing the kit and trying another deep breath, they made their way to the kitchen.

               Dan walked in on Spider-Man lying on his back beneath the window, a bag of frozen strawberries on his face.

               “You could have just asked me if—whatever,” they set the first-aid kit on the ground and slid it over to him with their foot.  “Stuff’s in there, tell me where it hurts, all that.  I could go through the whole routine, if you want.   _‘I’m a lifeguard, I’m here to help.’_ ”  When he still didn’t respond, they approached and sat next to him.  “Okay, no jokes.”  They bit their lip.  “Sorry.”

               “No,” he cleared his throat, “you’re good.  I’m…the one crashing through your window and stealing your,” he pulled the frozen package away from his face for a second to look at it, “fruity ice-packs.”  His brow seemed to furrow, “I just need some thick bandages, I realized I was all out and you were next d--?” He stopped, abrupt, before raising his free hand to clap it over his face.  “Maybe I’m losing more blood than I thought.”

               Once he’d said what he needed, Dan had started digging around in the kit for sanitizing wipes and gauze.  Considering the guy’s current state of coherence, this didn’t seem like a serious enough injury to require outside (not to mention amateur) medical assistance.  But Dan _had_ offered, and Spider-Man _had_ asked.  “Where’s the worst of it?”  They turned to hover over him, trying to spot any points the vigilante seemed to be favoring.

               He stopped muttering to himself, before shifting and gesturing vaguely at his abdomen.

               Dan sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.  Where shadow had hidden the torn suit and gash in his skin, now there was an obvious and _nasty_ cut running along the left side of his stomach.

               “All right, then,” they began, trying to quickly put gloves on over their sweaty hands.  “This will sting a bit, don’t move too much, all that, just—try to relax,” they tore open an alcohol wipe and set to work.

               Within five minutes the cut was as clean as they could get it, and as they brought out the gauze Spider-Man gently took it from them.  “I can take it from here, kid.”

               Dan squinted at the nickname, “okay…?” and they let the bandages slip through their fingers.  “And at what point could you have taken it from?”  Spider-Man only coughed out a small laugh.

               Protesting a guy’s jibes as he laid bleeding on the floor wasn’t the best idea, though, so Dan just rolled their eyes and scooted back from the prone man to watch him press gauze over his abdomen.  One or two of their friends had joked about him having some paunch, saying that Spider-Man was letting himself go, but Dan couldn’t really blame him.  This guy had filled out from youth, sure, but he couldn’t be over the age of forty.  And getting the shit beat out of you nearly every day by some ninja or giant alligator or other had to leave a lasting effect.

               Maybe staring with burning intensity at a superhero bandaging their stomach wound wasn’t the most polite thing to be doing.  Dan averted their eyes.  Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

               Asking why the guy had requested their help at all seemed rude, so Dan kept that small frustration to themselves.  It apparently didn’t make their annoyance any less obvious to Spider-Man.

               “You’re surprisingly quiet.” He was already done, sat up against the wall.

               “ _Is_ it surprising?” Dan deflected.  Considering their audience, that kind of question would only bring answers Dan knew they wouldn’t like.  So they tried to elaborate.  “ _’Hey, you offered emergency medical care once so I thought I’d drop in, but I don’t actually need it from you_ ,’” hands waved emphatically to convey _this is what you sounded like_.  “Even with warning, I get kinda,” broad gesture, please, find the word, “you know.  Like this, I guess.”  Nailed it.

               “To be fair, I only really asked for bandages,” he shrugged one shoulder.

“And I cleaned your cut and you, you took my frozen strawberries, and--and now I just feel like you’re not taking this seriously,” _not taking_ me _seriously,_ they corrected silently.

               “All right, all right, I’m sorry.  I asked for help and you gave it.  Because you offered it that one time, and, not a lot of people do that, and I don’t have a lot of other options nearby, so…Thank you, really.”  There wasn’t a promise of being better in there, but it’s not like Dan was going to see this guy often enough to merit actual anger.  They hoped.

               So they just nodded tightly, breathing out a quiet, “you’re welcome.”

               Another long silence, as Peter smoothed his fingers along the gauze on his stomach.  “Gonna have to sew that up, damn it.”

               “You don’t have extra suits?”

               “It’s not--?”  He stopped, shook his head and stared at them for a moment.  Dan coughed out a laugh, imagining the affronted expression Spider-Man must have been giving them from beneath his mask.  “It’s not like I _don’t_ have extras, but I don’t have like, ten in rotation.  What, do you have five of the same dresses for every day of the week?”

               He was a _lot_ more lively now, it seemed, to Dan’s general relief.  Their previous annoyance still clung at the back of their mind, but was fading fast.  _Go with the flow, come on, it’s over and done_.  _He’s had worse, he’s fine now.  You’re fine now._

               So, of course, they kept the bit going.  “Uniforms?  Yeah, actually.  And I had a _bunch_ of shmancy suits back when I swam competitively…”

               “Oh, my god, I wish I hadn’t asked—look, being able to patch my stuff up is _in_ , now, right?  DIY or some shit?  Isn’t it hot for guys to know how to sew?”  Dan’s eyes narrowed.  “Don’t answer that,” he snapped.

               “Didn't need to.”  They shrugged.  “Are you, uh, good now?  Like, since you’re not bleeding out and have had the necessary medical attention?”

               “Right, yeah.  I’m fine.  Will be fine.  Need to, uh,” glancing around, he finally took the glass of water from its place on the ground and drained it, “thank you, so so much.  You’re a gem.”

               “Yeah, yeah, any time, man.  I--all jokes aside, I mean it,” he looked at them for a moment, head cocked, before turning to leave.  They winced a little as he clambered out the window this time, making his way up the steps of the fire escape rather than scuttling up the wall.

               A few minutes passed and nothing happened; he didn’t fall back down or return in another way, so things must have worked out for him.  After locking their window and grumbling over their ruined drawing, Dan finally settled into bed and passed out.

              

               It was morning, so of course it was hectic, and Dan had just dodged out of the way of a cyclist speeding down the pavement ( _seriously?  Traffic was busted enough that they could handle the street)_ , which meant they were destined for collision with a different body in the stream of people on the sidewalk.  Bracing for impact, they sucked in a quick breath.

               “Whoa, fuck,” Dan’s face pressed into a pilled sleeve of a hoodie, strongly smelling of sweat and—was that pizza?  The guy winced and pulled in on himself, hand patting at his abdomen.  “Sorry, uh, ma’am--?”  A familiar tired voice came from vaguely above them.

               They must have reacted to _that_ with a sharp glare, because the guy immediately put up his hands, “all right, all right, sorry to get in your way,” and Dan had to quash the immediate guilt of _no that’s not the issue_.  Then they recognized the figure from a few days ago.

               Oh, right.  Not-quite-neighbor.  Imagine colliding with the same guy twice in New York City—less likely than lightning striking.  Living in the same building helped the odds, probably.

               “It’s—sorry.  My bad,” Dan grabbed the strap of their bag, “It’s not the—first time we’ve met like this, either.”  _Why would you say that oh god this is New York you don’t remember every person you accidentally bump into much less comment on it oh god Dan why_.

               His face relaxed, then, and Dan could finally get a clear look.  It was as tired as the guy sounded, prominent frown lines surrounding bags under brown eyes, and greying stubble.  His brown hair was fading into silver at his temples, as well.  “Oh, right.  Hi-diddly-ho, neighborino.” _He_ knew that he and Dan lived in the same building.

               “What a welcome, Flanders,” they smiled, “though that’s…probably not your name.  I’m Dan, nice to meet you,” they scooted a bit more out of the way of the sidewalk traffic before holding out a hand.

               He paused to stare them in the eye for the briefest moment, face going slack, and Dan’s first guess was he was trying to figure out the name without looking at their body too hard.  Eventually his mouth quirked up at the corner and he took the shake firmly.  “Peter.  Likewise.”  Was this a conversation?  Was it time to end it?

               “You from around here?”  His perpetually-tired demeanor fit the one Dan had quickly come to associate with locals.

               “Queens, born—well, raised.  You?”  Dan shook their head.

               “Cincinnati,” at his responding snort, Dan shrugged, “yeah, it’s a good joke.”

               “New York hasn’t lost its allure to anyone that doesn’t live here, has it?”

               “For a guy seeking the odd carpentry job at its apparently limitless theatres, not at all,” they shrugged again, “I make it work.”

               Peter nodded, eyes unfocusing slightly, “don’t we all,” he shook his head, “wait.  Theatre?”

               Dan smiled, “yep.  I make the stage all pretty.  Let me know if you want tickets, I get a couple comps for the shows I do.”  _That was meant to be a joke but only sort of._ They forced down the awkward feeling that came with saying _forward_ _things_ like _that_ as the man gained a dangerously thoughtful expression.

But then he was smiling, and the world felt warmer and more certain again, “if you’re sure, I just might.”  He scratched at the stubble on his cheek.  “Well, good to finally meet you, Dan.  See you round.”  He raised a hand in farewell.

               They nodded, “and you, Peter,” and within seconds he was lost in the throng of moving people.

               Thank goodness they always gave themselves ample time to get to work, because they needed a few moments to sort through…well, a lot.

               Harsh fluorescent lights pricked at Dan’s eyes as they shuffled through the subway station to their train line.  _Posture, breathing_ , the thoughts cycled through as they shoved headphones into their ears.  _Something calming, something_ …

A smile quirked up one side of their mouth as they settled on _Carrie and Lowell_ , head bobbing to quiet guitar and quieter singing, letting themselves be carried away onto rumbling tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have frantically been trying to fill this out to make pacing and tone work and I just hope y'all like it. I got a lot more coming, after I do the same fleshing-out treatment. This has been a real fun story to write, I hope you all enjoy reading it too.


	3. Keep Moving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's friends are wonderful, really, but sometimes they understand too much for Dan's own peace. Also Spider-Man is finally arriving of his own accord? But he's being a bit of a shit, so Dan resorts to some unwinding methods.

               Miranda somehow noticed Dan’s distraction when they got to the shop.  It was apparently a cramped enough space that one learned a lot about people without trying to.  “Something up?  You look like you’re getting in one of your moods.”

               “What?” They looked up from the drafts they’d been staring at without comprehension.  “No, I’m not,” at her knowing look, Dan scrambled to add, “and I don’t have _moods_.”

               “Denial is a terrible thing, Dan.  Doesn’t age you well.”

               “I’m not in denial!  I go to therapy and everything.”

               “Mm-hmm.”

               “It’s not a mood!” But she didn’t say anything more, just raised her eyebrows.  Dan groaned.  “All right, yeah, something happened.  This morning I met my…neighbor?  I guess?  We live in the same building.  Ran into him, actually.  Practically barreled.”

               “So you pulled the classic Donkey Kong.  He immediately asked you out, right then and there.”  The manic light in her eyes would have made Dan more uncomfortable if they didn’t know Miranda better.  She knew how difficult it was for them to socialize, and had decided the day they met that she would be encouraging to an uncomfortable degree.

               Well, those were the words she’d used the day she decided that.  So far, she’d held to it.

               “No, he didn’t.  I just apologized like someone who’s not from New York and then we introduced ourselves.  There was a joke made at my hometown’s expense.  The usual.”

               “He must’ve been something special, to kick you into this kind of gear.”  Dan mouthed _I don’t have moods_ as they rolled their eyes, grabbing a tape measure and square to go do something with their hands.

               So Dan went for the obvious feint, “what makes you think it was a _he?_ ”  It was a dodge, and Miranda knew it.

               “You’d be more doe-eyed if it had been a woman,” fuck.  Shit.  She was right.

               Dan’s coworker knew she’d won when they relented to that comment, but she didn’t press any more.  “I’m sure you’ll hang him out to dry, Danny.  Good news, though: Ethan has finally been coming round to the idea of moving in, which would be a goddamn _blessing_ on my mind and my wallet.  Let me tell you, the roommate has been up to some _shit_ …” and Dan brushed off the annoyance to settle in and listen, because that’s what they did best.

 

That night there wasn’t a clang, but a knock at the kitchen window.  At least Dan wasn’t inking anything this time.  There was still an air of caution as they made their way from the bedroom to the kitchen space, relaxed only when Dan saw the familiar red and blue of the suit, all patched up since last time.

               “Howdy, neighbor,” he sounded like he was smirking beneath the mask.

               “Howdy.  What brings you to my,” they looked around at the kitchen, which had grown a lot more cluttered since his last visit, “humble abode?”

               Spider-Man followed their gaze around before shrugging, saying, “would you believe me if I said I was lonely?”

               “Yes,” Dan answered immediately.  They were hitting the heavy topics already, Dan was almost flattered at the rate their friendship was progressing.

               He didn’t even feign offense, so he must have been telling the truth.  That was a thought—Spider-Man, lonely.  That’s what superpowers and crime-fighting did to you, Dan supposed.  “I dunno how well I keep company, though.”

               “You’re fine.  Great, even.  Wonderful change of pace from the usual.”

               Dan’s eyes narrowed, “that doesn’t…seem like a fair comparison.”

               “For you or for ‘the usual’?”  He was definitely smiling under that mask.

               “You know what,” they clapped their hands on the counter, “I need a drink.”

               Dan put the kettle on and grabbed a lemon from the fridge, feeling Spider-Man’s eyes gaze on them as they bustled about.

               “Ooo, tea.  You make a nice cuppa, I forgot to tell you last time.”  That sent a strange sprig of warmth through their gut.

               They didn’t correct him on the drink as they got the honey out of the cabinet, along with a half-drunk bottle of whisky.  “…Oh,” he was much quieter now.

               As they set out a mug, they paused, looking back at the vigilante.  “Would you like some?  I’ve heard drinking alone is a sure sign of alcoholism.”

               He stared at them for a moment before rolling his head back with a shrug, “ahh, fuck, why not?”

               “Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, out here saying the ‘fuck’ word.” 

               “That’s it, I’ve gone completely off the rails.  Someone should arrest me.”

               The water was near boiling, they turned off the kettle and measured out the whisky. “Haven’t they been trying for like, fifteen years?” Dan turned to see him leveling them with that _curious_ stare, again.

               “I’m not even gonna correct your dates, there, I’m too flattered at your presumption of my youth.”  He’d been going at it for _longer?_   Dan hoped the surprise wasn’t too evident on their face as they handed him the hot toddy.  No such luck. “Is that a deal breaker?  I didn’t just freak you out too much, did I?”

               _Deal breaker_ had an unusual context here, but Dan would think about that later.  They blew on the hot liquid in their own mug, “not freaked out, just…surprised.  Impressed?  Both of those things.  But not freaked out, takes more than that.”

               “Bet I can think of a few things,” his mask was pulled up again to sip at his drink, and Dan could see an impish grin on the worn face.

               “I bet you can too, but really.  Most of the time freaking out is my own fault,” they thought back to their earlier conversation with Miranda and frowned, “I’m working on it.”

               He shrugged, “more than most people can say.”

               “You’re not ‘most people,’” the moment the words left their mouth, Dan regretted them.

               “In the sense that I have issues in my life that I don’t or can’t handle in the most healthy ways, I probably am most people.”  Dan shuddered at the blunt response.  “Does that bother you?”  He probably wasn’t meaning to sound accusatory, but oh, man, was Dan taking it like he was.

               They didn’t know if this was a good discussion to have.  “I, uh…I had a lot of, um, feelings about it, I guess?”  They took a deep breath.  “Like, I know you’re a guy that just kinda lives in New York and is Spider-Man and that has its whole host of troubles but you’re still…Spider-Man.  You’re not most people.  At least, according to…most people.”

               He twisted his mouth into a thoughtful expression.  He was probably humoring them.  This couldn’t have been the first of these sorts of conversations he’s had.

               So Dan just said, “So I guess, in short: yeah, it bothered me, because I separate the Spider-Man stuff from the friendly neighborhood without meaning to.  And I figured it out.  So, uh, sorry about that.”

               He pursed his lips, “What?  No need to be sorry.  It’s no worries, man.”  Dan closed their eyes.  _Breathe._

               They both lapsed into silence.  Dan took a big swig and relished the momentary burn of the alcohol.

               “I know you don’t act like I’m a bother, but…this is _your_ place, and like.  Obviously you can, like, tell me to leave.”

               Several points of that statement stuck out to Dan: the non-sequitur, the vigilante’s sudden self-consciousness over inviting himself in on his _third_ impromptu visit, and that he’d already decided that Dan was annoyed by him.

Immediately, Dan felt awkward, despite his point being incredibly valid and also _important_ because, really?  This guy was a stranger, a man, some guy who, despite his reputation for saving the city again and again and again no matter the danger, still just dropped in on their fire escape.  And Dan just let him in and served him tea and thought it would all be fine and dandy because they didn’t care too much about anything and this guy had more important stuff to think about than some random artist in their dingy flat.  And the thoughts swirled as they kept staring so long that the dryness in their eyes was uncomfortable and then Spider-Man was up, walking toward them, asking, “hey, yo, just making sure.  Please don’t freak out,” he waved a hand in front of their face.

               Dan’s eyes refocused, and they coughed, “fuck.”  Silence for another minute as they tried to collect the thoughts into words.  Spider-Man cocked his head, eye panels narrowed.  “Sorry, I, uh, got lost for a moment.  You’re, um, fine?  Really, if there’s an issue I promise I’ll say so.  But I haven’t…said so, yet, so there isn’t.  An issue, I mean.”  Spider-Man relaxed, so Dan relaxed.  “I don’t think you’re a bother, I…have enjoyed having you around.”  He kept not _saying_ anything, so they kept trying to make it right by continuing, “I guess I’m—also, kind of lonely.”  The feeling of _awkward wrong bad_ didn’t go away, but Dan figured it’d wear off in a few days.

               The half of his face that still wasn’t covered by mask softened into a reassuring smile.  “You and me both, pal.  Hey, those paintings are sick.  You do those?”  Disrupt, comfort, distract.  Dan’s neurotic tendencies were probably not Spider-Man’s first rodeo, and they could feel a small smile on their face as they said yes, in fact, they ‘did those’ paintings lining the kitchen walls, and began talking about expression and hey, Spider-Man was into photography?  He should have a darkroom area in his lair or whatever equivalent space he had.

               There was something else, now, a new feeling winding its way into Dan’s heart—a strange contentment, perhaps.  The fact alone that this guy willingly wanted to spend time with them?  Doing wonders for Dan’s self-esteem.  Now wasn’t the time to dwell, though—they could bring it up with their therapist later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to put so much in between all of these chapters because this MC doesn't have enough dimensions. Needs seven, maybe eight more. Would love that. Maybe I need more dimensions too. Lots of little shout-outs to special things in my life here.  
> Hot Toddies hold a special place in my heart from a very special night with friends of mine, and my goal is to make a living in theatre tech (carpentry and electrics especially).


	4. Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> impromptu breakfast shindig leads to day off getting out of the house (a rare occurrence)  
> things get interrupted, Dan freaks out a little bit, it ends on an uncomfortable note.

               The next few days were, well, nice.  Dan had a bad habit of not paying attention to when things were going well and enjoying them while it lasted, but right now was the rare occasion that something good was going on and Dan knew and cared and _wanted_ to care and wow, that was refreshing.

               Miranda poked fun at them for it, and Carrie and Josh even noticed the good mood.  They were all, in their own ways, giving positive feedback.  Dan hoped that would extend the good feeling into the coming months.  They just had to stay focused.

               Eventually, Dan found themselves leaving their apartment building just as snarky neighbor Peter was entering.  They managed to avoid a collision this time, but it was a near thing.  “Howdy, neighbor,” Dan greeted him.

               He looked a bit brighter than the last time they’d seem him, too.  His hair was combed, he was wearing a nice sweater and jacket, and his stubble looked more freshly shaven.  He smiled at them, almost nostalgic, before responding in kind, “howdy.  Off to build some shit?  Use cool power tools?”

               It was a rare day off, and Dan was planning on spending it out and about for once instead of holed up in their apartment.  “No, actually.  Free today.  Gotta get some sunlight,” and they full-on _grinned_ at him.

               Peter raised his eyebrows, “You seem chipper enough already, maybe the sun’s doing too good of a job.  Careful, or you’ll become more powerful than the rest of us.”

               They giggled.  _Giggled?_ It wasn’t meant to be so high-pitched.  The people around them didn’t care, but Peter’s eyebrows nearly doubled in height.  Dan could feel warmth traveling up their neck.  “Join me, then?”

               Their fear of rejection hadn’t even factored into the reflex response, but it quickly made itself known as Dan felt the flush in their face, “you don’t, uh, have to, just—you know, if you want to be powerful like me.  Getting lots of sunlight?  Uh--!”

               “Dan.”

               Peter’s face was suddenly _right there,_ and he was smirking like nobody’s business and then he was just saying, “I like coffee.  You like coffee?”

               _Talk.  Say something.  Please, Dan, Danny, Dani, Daniel_.  “I’m—partial to it,” they managed, and Peter let out a laugh—a good, full laugh.  “Good, there’s a place I know.”

               The ‘place’ Peter knew was a diner three blocks over where nothing cost above four dollars and Dan loved everything it said about the man.  They both ordered coffee, with Peter also adding about four meals off the menu.

               “You go to school for theatre?” He asked from behind his mug, hiding the immense amount of food in his mouth.

               Dan shook their head, “Classical Studies.”  Maybe it was living in New York City, or maybe the general stability of their life at the moment, but in the past year Dan had stopped getting immediately defensive of their pretentious-sounding degree.  It was almost like no one really cared that much.

               “There was theatre back then, too,” Peter waved them off, “Anti-gone?  And, uh, Oedipus, right?”  They nodded, but instead of looking pleased he said, “you don’t have to humor me, last time I looked at anything Greek was reading the Odyssey in high school.”

               “No, really, you were almost there,” they grinned.  “I mean, if you want me to not humor you, you pronounced ‘Antigone’ wrong.”

He waved a hand, “There it is.”  He leaned back against the vinyl with a squeak.  “So, what got you into theatre?  Glory of the stage?  Hot boys?”

               “I was in the pit orchestra in high school and decided I wanted to do what the crew did.  Managed to get a job in the scene shop in college, led to summerstocks and all that, now I’m here.  Had to prove I work as hard and as well as those with the fancy degrees.”  Dan smirked, “there was a hot girl at one point, but that didn’t end well.”

               “Cautionary tale for workplace romances?”

               “Let’s call it that.”  _Too much about yourself_ , “what about you?  Study anything after high school?”

               “Chemical engineering,” he looked over Dan’s shoulder, the smile on his faced forced, “degree and all.  Stuff got in the way after that.”

               “It does that.  Career path didn’t agree with you?”

               “Let’s say that,” he turned Dan’s own dodge on them.  They smirked, setting their arms on the table to lean further in.

               “You got any embarrassing stories from uni?”

 

               They talked like that for nearly an hour, before Dan could feel their legs yearning to move and the sheer amount of coffee burning holes in their stomach.  “Come on, walk time.”

               Ease, was the biggest part of it.  He made it easy to talk, made it _fun_ , and sounded as interested as he was interesting.  Dan hadn’t met someone they vibed with on this level in a long time—and a _man_ , no less.  He noticed the things Dan noticed, valued a lot of the same things (“Nobody has the _time_ to think big picture!  So many problems are rooted on the systemic level!  And the point of the system is that no one is supposed to _know!_ ”).  It wasn’t tiring, the way talking to people usually was.  They didn’t have to worry about ground rules, about feeling out the space.  He _got_ it.

               “So…uni?  Secondary school?  _Cheers?_   Come on, even I know that show wasn’t popular enough to merit its title replacing the phrase ‘thank you,’” he nudged Dan with an elbow.

               They’d wandered as far as Central Park, making their way along the paths to the Alice fountain.  Summer was fading into autumn, and the briefest glimmers of changing leaves caught Dan’s eye every few steps.  “I studied abroad for a while,” they said simply.

               “Ooo, world traveler here.”  Dan rolled their head to level Peter with a _look_.  “Somewhere in the Commonwealth?  Great British Empire, and all that?” He nudged them again with each question, and their laugh eventually spilled out.

               “Scotland.  Edinburgh, mainly.  So yeah, glorious empire and all that,” they emphasized with jazz hands.

               “Sounds exciting.  Haggis?  Blood pudding?”

               “Better than advertised.”

               “You’re joshing me.”

               “ _Now_ who’s adopting the lingo?” They finally nudged him back.  “Nah, I try to go back when possible, since the Fringe is there.  Theatre and all that.  Makes for a good resume.”  They looked at him, “so much talk about me, none about you.  What do you like to do?”

               Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again, blinking.  As if he’d been preparing to respond to a different question.  “I like…watching television, eating pizza, the occasional drink.  Reading master’s students’ dissertations to see what wild shit they’re trying to get up to.”  He scratched at the back of his head, humming.  “Sports, when I have time.  Soccer, especially.”

               “Oh, soccer, _yes_ ,” Dan rolled their head back to stare through the foliage.  They hadn’t played since college, but soccer had been their main form of exercise and socializing with people outside of their major.

               “Hey, we’re in Central Park.  There’s bound to be some pickup happening right now--?”  Peter was cut off by crashing and screeching metal.

               Dan whipped their head toward the noise, as plumes of smoke began to rise above the trees, the actual event obscured by the woods and brush.  Movement next to them caught Dan’s eye, as Peter leaned back and groaned to the heavens, reaching up to rub a hand over his face.  “Okay, Dan, let’s get somewhere safe.”  He glared in the direction of the commotion, “well, saf _er._ ”

               He held a hand to the small of their back, Dan flinching at the touch.  “Sorry, sorry,” Peter ran a hand through his hair, “just, don’t worry about me, just, go in the opposite direction of _that_ ,” he jerked his head toward the smoke.

               “I’m not—I’m not worried about you?  It’s no big deal, Peter.”

               “I know it’s not, I just,” with each word he took another step away from them, “just…I have to go check something, friends I should call.  I’ll catch up.”

He wasn’t panicking, or anything like that, but his insistence was suspicious, to say the least.  Like he wanted them to go, specifically to separate from him.

               A rough, animalistic roar echoed around them.  “Okay,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “let’s get out of here,” and he began running, without even a glance behind him.

               What the fuck?

               Dan cursed their shit knees as they quickly lost sight of Peter on the crowded paths.

               It took several minutes for Dan to make their way out of Central Park, giving up on running fairly quickly since the danger was _somewhere else_ and their asthma was already acting up, even from the brief sprint _._ Fuck, it had been so long since they’d last exercised.

               They all but fell on the nearest open bench along the outer fence of Central Park, trying to breathe deeply.  Talk of _Spider-Man_ echoed in conversations passing by, and Dan realized they hadn’t heard any explosions or other sounds of destruction in a while.  It must have been taken care of by the one and only.

               And then Peter was falling onto the bench next to them, sounding…out of breath?  “Hey.”

               He glanced at them from the corner of his eye, almost expectant.  Like he knew they were annoyed (they were), and knew what he did was a dick move (it was).  But he was their neighbor, and this was the, what?  Second time they’d hung out in any capacity?  So they gave him a small nod and said, “welcome back.”  If he wanted to explain himself, he could bring it up whenever he was ready.

               The walk home was quiet, and more than a little awkward.  The frustration behind Dan’s eyes was building into a migraine.  Why did they tell themselves they’d be fine with this?

               They were in the lobby of the apartment building when Peter shoved his hands deep in his pockets.  “Hey, it sucks that the day ended uh, like it did,” his shoulders hunched in a perpetual shrug, “but it was a lot of fun.  Would like to…do it again, sometime?”

               Dan shrugged slightly, failing to make eye contact, “Umm, yeah.  That’d be nice.”  They couldn’t wait to go over this moment, this _entire day_ , piece by piece, torturously, exacerbating the frustration and _tiredness_ they were feeling.  Everything was suddenly so _draining_.  Peter made to wave goodbye, but Dan was already shuffling toward the stairwell.

               The hours sat at their desk flew by in a daze, and suddenly it was nearly eleven and they remembered they were hungry.

               They _hated_ that the first place they looked upon entering the kitchen was the window out to the fire escape.  Usually, there was nothing, so they had no reason to check on it.  It was usually nothing.

               There was something.

               The red and blue was muted in whatever light managed to make its way up from the street, but focusing in the dark was making Dan’s head hurt, and at this point food was the only thing they cared for.

               Spider-Man didn’t move the entire time Dan set about looking for a snack, settling on jam toast with tea.

               The cupboard of mugs was open before them and they paused, and sighed.

               The window slid open smoothly enough as they set the steaming mug along the sill.  “Rough day,” they said simply, both asking and telling.  Spider-Man only nodded.

               “Yeah, those sure happen.”  Dan slowly, slowly slid down the wall until they sat below the sill.

               “Well,” Dan tilted their head back, “wasn’t all bad.  Just ended bad, which is how I usually remember things.”

               He hummed, “I get that.”

               “You handle that mess just east of Central Park?”

“Hmm?  Oh, yeah,” silence held for a beat before he continued, somewhat awkwardly, “you were…there for that?”

They fought the urge to look at him, “was walking with a friend ‘round the park, didn’t see what happened.”  They rolled their eyes.  “Though, he didn’t have a problem leaving me behind to…whatever.  ‘Check on something.’  Convenient timing.”  The words felt like mud in their mouth.

“You didn’t believe him?”

“It’s not like I didn’t believe him, it’s just...the moment something weird happened he was looking for an out.”

“You think?”  It must have been the humidity, or the ambient sounds of the city, that made his voice thicken.

“Maybe I’m just used to it working out like that.”

There was a sharp inhale through his nose, but no other response for a few seconds.  They looked back to see him turned almost fully toward them, staring.  If the light weren’t so low, Dan would say his brow was furrowed.  He didn’t even need to voice his concern for how _bad_ that sounded.

“I’m working on it.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said.”

Dan scooted so they were facing him full on, now.  “And it’s true.  I’m allowed to be frustrated with him.  I don’t think it’s a lost cause, though, because he hasn’t even explained himself yet.  If that’s what you’re skeptical about.”  _Not that Spider-Man cares, oh god Dan why are you talking about this to a guy that doesn’t know anything about you or your life or friends he’s not your therapist_.

His jaw worked under his mask.  “I—okay, I’m…sorry for being presumptuous.”  Huh.  That was new.

They shifted, uncomfortable at how his head was bowed apologetically.  “Well, uh.  Don’t worry too much about it.”  They wanted him to worry at least a little bit, though.

“You—ugh, just throw me a shovel, so I can dig myself deeper.  I’m sorry I doubted your experience, I wasn’t there.  You’re valid as heck.  What that guy did was suspicious and kind of a dick move.  But I think things will work out with him?”

Dan gave him a small smile, “Cite your sources, sir?”

“It was revealed to me in a dream.”

Dan’s mouth fell open.  “Did you just--?”  They forced the word _meme_ back from the tip of their tongue.  “You just did,” disbelief laced their laugh as Dan shook their head.

“It’s hard to keep believing in people, trust me, I know.  But you know what…you know what you want from people?  Or, you can do what you want.  You’re smart, you get it.  Yeah.”  He shot them finger guns.

That…didn’t make a lot of sense.  “I—thank you?  I think?”

With a splay of jazz hands, Spider-Man picked up his mug and shuffled up the outside wall of the building, head still peeking through the window.  “I hope your day ends better than this afternoon did.”  His voice muffled as he moved further away, “thank you for the teeeeeaaaa!”

Dan sat there for a moment in stunned silence, mouth agape, trying to come up with a response that they knew he wouldn’t hear.

Then, with a quiet laugh, they picked up their late snack and headed off to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pacing has been feeling weird but I guess I can tell you all I meant to write it this way.  
> Dan has trouble being sure of anything they're feeling so I want the realization of attraction to Peter (and also a bit to Spider-Man) to come very very VERY slowly but I don't think I'll ever be completely satisfied so I gotta set that deadline and deal with it.  
> Thank you for the generally positive (?) feedback? Goodness I'm terrified of sharing my work anywhere so I'm happy with how it's gone so far.


	5. Discuss, Discuss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan somehow manages to muddle through confrontation and resolution, and Peter validates them and that means quite a bit because Dan is bad at any form of fixing things that are in any way emotions-related.  
> And then a small realization that Dan's brain throws way out of proportion.

 

               “It’s been a weird few weeks,” Dan started focusing especially hard on the box the tissues set next to them.  “I think Spider-Man is my neighbor.”

               “You think?”

               “Well,” they rolled their head back to stare at the ceiling, “he’s arrived on my fire escape on several occasions already, some of those times rather…unceremoniously.  And one of those times I helped patch up an injury he got.”

               “You agreed to it, I’m guessing?”

               “I offered, one of the other times, so I guess he was taking me up on it.  It’s like, he falls onto my flat’s fire escape?  Which just makes me wonder if he lives the floor up or…whatever.  I don’t know.  He’s called me neighbor, but I don’t think that means much.”  Their fingers were worrying a loose thread in the couch cushion—when had that started?

               “It seems like it does mean at least a little bit.  You ever ask him about it, about anything like that?”

               Dr. Sargent’s lips pursed when Dan shook their head, “I don’t want to pry, I guess?  And like, it’s his business, where he lives and what he does.”

               “But he’s been asking you for help.  That’s _your_ business.”

               “He said he’s lonely.”  The words out loud made obvious the excuse.  Dan was grasping at straws for justification.

               “But what about _you_?”

               “I think I’m lonely, too.”

               “Are you thinking about ways to work on that?

               Dan looked away from the eye contact they hadn’t been holding.  “I…have been.”

               “Well,” They finally looked the counselor in the face, her eyes soft and kind, “you can say no to him, if it’s affecting you more than you would like.”

               “I know,” the sunlight glared off the concrete jungle outside, “it’s strange, I’ve also made…friends?  I guess?  With another neighbor of mine.  We say hi whenever we see each other, have hung out a bit whenever we’re free.”

               “That sounds like you’re enjoying it, but…cautiously.”

               “Yeah,” they sighed, “also, he pulled a totally dick move a few days ago.  Which like, I’m waiting for him to explain it before making any kind of judgement.  Which, he seemed like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t?  For some reason.”  Dan rolled their eyes and shrugged.  “But honestly, with him?  I’m just waiting for the bit to be over and the joke to be done.”

               They heard their therapist sigh as the usual narrative slipped into its groove.  “Do you think your neighbor sees it that way?”

               Dan gave a laughless smirk, “probably not.  But he seems flighty, inconsistent.  Unpredictable.”

               “In what way?”

               “That I feel uncertain—” Dan stopped.  “That I can’t be certain about him, I can’t figure him out.  The contribution to something will always be unbalanced, because he will be ready to leave at any moment.”

               “That sounds like you’re keeping yourself from experiencing this out of fear of…what you said.”

               “Probably.  Same old, same old.”

               “Have you considered you’re doing the same thing you think he might do?”  _Same old, same old._

               This time Dan stared straight into Dr. Sargent’s eyes before answering, “always.  And this will unfold the way it always has for me.”  They didn’t add the last bit, finishing the phrase in their head: _badly_.

              

               “Howdy, neighbor,” Peter fell in step next to Dan as they made their way down to the subway.

               They didn’t look over, digging in their bag for a train pass.  “Yo,” they eventually managed.

               “You…okay?”

               Did he really wanna know?  “Not really.”

               “Shit.  What’s up?”

               _Did he really wanna know?_ “A bit miffed about a few days ago, but I wanted wait until you explained yourself.”

               He stopped.  Dan kept walking.

               “Hey, hey--!  Hey, I said I was sorry,” he was following them now, fishing a pass out of his pocket to keep up through the subway gates.

               _No, you didn’t_.  They finally turned to squint at him, “Mm, okay.  Listen, Peter, it was a dick move of me to bring it up and then leave it on you to tell me whenever.  It’s my problem.  I’ll get over it.”

               “No, Dan, I know it was--!”  He scrambled for words as Dan’s eyes unfocused, preparing to wait out a continuation of the deflections from the other day.  “Please, I was, uh—I was calling, uh…Spider-Man.”

               Full stop.  Dan checked their phone, groaning internally.  _Gotta make this train_.  Whatever.  They’d deal with being late to work when they got there, late.  “Okay?”  They pointedly made eye contact with a Peter that was trying to be as small as possible among the rush of commuters around them.

               “Had to do it on the down-low.  Secret identity and all that.  That, uh, situation seemed like something only he could handle.”

               “And so you…called him?  Like he wouldn’t have already known?”

               “New York is a big city, I can’t trust him to know everything.  It was a serious situation, please take this seriously,” any traces of playfulness he’d shown at the first hello had disappeared.  “I had to be sure he knew as soon as possible, and I don’t really want any kind of clout as Spidey’s friend, it’s bad attention.  I should have trusted you with that from the beginning, I know.”

               It all just felt insincere, like poor acting, like there was still something he wasn’t telling them.  There was a person behind the curtain, and Dan had a growing suspicion that Peter was more than simply adjacent to it.  But with the pain it seemed to be causing him…

               Dan’s eyes softened, shoulders relaxing.

               Maybe one day he’d trust them enough to tell them the truth, but right now he was trying very hard to keep what little relationship they already had going.  “You have your reasons, but you want…this friendship, between us?  You want it, and frankly, I do too.  Just please…let me know when you’re going to do something like that again.”  Dan could feel the familiar tug of frustration at the withheld truth, like it had so many times before.  _Please don’t ruin this, Daniel_.  They hoped Peter didn’t ruin it just as well.

               But Peter was nodding, grabbing their hand with both of his own, “I really am sorry.  I didn’t want…I don’t want you to get hurt.  You’re good company, I wish I were better at letting you know.”

               _That_ sent a shock of warmth through Dan’s body, and they could feel a blush rising on their neck.  “Well, uh,” they scrambled, “that’s something you can work on, and, uh, I can try my best too.”

               The smile he gave them lit his face in a way they hadn’t seen before, pulling frown lines into ones of laughter, brown eyes somehow gleaming golden even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the underground station.  “Look at us, working through our issues.”  He nudged them, following them onto the train.

               Dan gave him a _look_ from the corner of their eye, “whose issues?”  He whined at that, hand pressed to his chest in mock-offense.  “Oh, come off it, I’m not gonna take this from you.”

               His smile in response was more of a grimace, followed by a shrug.  “Gotta dig myself as deep as possible, the only way to live.”

               Unbelievable.  Dan shook their head.

               “Is that a smile?”  Peter was such a _shit_.  When they shook their head, ducking to hide the smirk on their face, he just followed them and pointed, “that’s a smile, that is.”

               “Shut _up_.”  Dan wished they could, for once, stop taking things like this so _seriously_.  The weight of the past week was draining away with each jibe from their neighbor, replaced by the levity of just…Peter, being Peter.  And of Dan, feeling _okay_ for goddamn _once_.

Something more was there, now.  Peter had joked about ‘working through our issues’ but it wasn’t too far off the mark.  They were moving forward, _somewhere,_ which was a rare enough thing that Dan was more than ready to keep going.

 

               That night the knock didn’t come from their window, but the front door.

               The smell of pizza hit their nose just as Peter’s sheepish smile came into view.  “I was a dick and want to fix this and want to prove I’m gonna be better so.  Would you want to…share this with me?”  He held up the box, as if it were an offering.

               He grew more uncomfortable the longer Dan went without speaking.  It wasn’t from anger, no, just…surprise.  “I can go, if you want--?”

               “N-no, nope, you’re very good.  I just—you didn’t have to do that?  I thought we’d cleared it all up?  Earlier today?”  The doorway pressed against their shoulder as they leaned into it with crossed arms.

               “I mean, yeah—yeah.  Yes, we did.  But I wanted to hang out?  And that seemed like a pretty good lead-in for the subject but I’m apparently bad at--?”  He sucked in a breath, rolling his eyes.  “Dan.  Daniel?”  He smiled as they shook their head.  “Dan.  Would you.  Like to.  Hang out like the cool awesome friends we are and share this pizza?”

               “I…” Dan bit their lip.  “Okay?”

               “You sure?”

               “I—yeah, I am.”

               “Cool, then we can go wherever you prefer?”

               Dan glanced behind them for a moment, wondering for a brief moment about a potential visit from the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, before rolling their eyes and jerking their head at Peter.  “Come on in.”

               They gestured to Peter to put the pizza on the kitchen table, grabbing a sketchbook and settling on the couch.

               His head snaked back a bit, “Drawing time?”

               “S’what I was doing before you came by.”

               He leaned against the table for a minute, eyes unfocused, before shaking his head and moving to a cabinet, taking glasses out and filling them from the sink.

               He’d never been in their flat before.  _Lucky guess, maybe._   Dan shrugged it off, trying to loosen the tension in their shoulders, “make yourself at home.”

               “Fresh tap water, heavy metals and all.”  He set them down on the coffee table in front of the couch, grabbing the pizza and placing it there as well.

               “Don’t even joke about that,” they waved Peter off as he settled on the opposite side of the couch.

               The box was opened, and for a few minutes was the most companionable silence Dan had experienced in…a while.

               “Damn, this is good, where’s this place?”

               “Mmmf, uh,” He finished his slice, “on a corner about a block and a half that—way,” he gestured in a direction, probably thinking about which it would be while indoors, “and another block, uh, that way,” he gestured again.  “Been going to them for years.”

               “Oh, deep cuts of Peter Parker lore right there?”

               He snorted, “hardly _deep_ , but to say I would risk life and limb to defend that place’s honor isn’t an exaggeration.”  He picked up another piece, “better strike quick or there won’t be any left for you,” he jerked his head toward the pizza.

               “Nah, I’m good,” they didn’t like rejecting his generosity, but they also didn’t know how his food situation was.  Dan worried about him.  Settling back into the couch, Dan took out their sketchbook again.

               They looked up to see him scoot a bit closer, leaning in to take a look at the page.  “How long you been drawing?”

               A familiar shpeal formed in their brain.  “Well, I took a course in high school—uh,” they stopped.   _No need to monologue_.  “Drawing for _serious,_ around college time, uh, about eight years?  It, hmm, it took me a while to get over the ‘being bad at first’ thing.”

               His eyes flicked over to them before returning to the sketchbook, “I am all too familiar with that feeling, don’t you worry.”  He looked a bit closer, Dan fighting to keep from shrinking away.  “Good movement, you really capture it well.  I don’t—I was never big on drawing, since photography’s more my thing?”  He leaned back to look at the ceiling.  “I—hmm.”

               When he didn’t keep going, Dan tucked their knees up closer, adjusting their sketchbook to a more comfortable angle, focusing on Peter’s profile.  They got several focal points down before he turned to look at them.

               “You got something, there?”

               They hummed, casting a coy glance up at him, “mm, nothing big.”

               “It may seem that way to you, but I like knowing if I’m in for a surprise modeling session.”

               “You don’t even have to do anything, you look fine at any angle.”  Dan scratched a few more hard lines onto the sketch—hard angles of a nose, crooked like it’d been broken.  Prominent cheekbones, any trace of _gaunt_ that they’d seen at first almost disappeared.

               “Really?  Have you been checking often?”  At first, Dan didn’t react because it took a moment for his question to register.  Then, they didn’t react because they were too _shocked_ to even raise their eyebrows.

               In the midst of frozen _blank_ expression on their face they managed to bite out a terse, “ _No,_ ” before turning a new page in the sketchbook and wracking their brains for something, _anything_ to draw.

               He had nice lines!  Nice lines, that’s all.  That’s all it was with Eric in the eighth grade, with Susan in junior year of high school, or with _her_ —Dan stopped.  Oh no.  _Oh no_.

               “Riiiiight,” he poked them in the shoulder, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside Dan’s brain right now.  When they still didn’t respond, he leaned down into their line of sight, “you—Dan?   You okay?  It was a joke.  Dan,” he waved a hand.

               They rolled a shoulder up and down, blinked slowly, and snorted.  _Could not have looked faker, but it’ll do_.  “Yes, of course, you’ve guessed it completely.  Absolutely right, Peter.”  Stated flatly, dangerously high sarcasm levels and all.

               And he fell for it, of course.  Because it was the response he was expecting.

               “You said you liked photography?”  Dan didn’t want to talk about this anymore, not with a weird shapeless revelation sitting at the base of their skull.  “You manage to make a living off it?”

               Just like that, the deflection was so easy.  Peter pulled a face and said, “define _living_ ,” and as he managed to complain about every facet of J. Jonah Jameson’s integrity, it all relaxed once more.  Peter probably hadn’t even noticed.

               _Not a big deal, Dan.  Not a big deal._   Because it wasn’t.  It wasn’t!  They would one-hundred percent make sure that it was not going to be a big deal.

               Even then, they knew how this would go, the same way it always did.

 

               _Badly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello it's just me writing my life out again  
> Thanks for the kudos, comments are welcome, sorry it's been irregular updates, I've been busy.  
> therapy is great, y'all, highly recommend it.


	6. Somewhere Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are patched from before, Dan is fighting their pessimism, Peter pretends like he hasn't visited an alternate universe or two. They talk about Fight Club, sort of.

               Dan was settled on the subway when a voice spoke next to them, “you headed my way, partner?”  The familiarity of _cowboy_ broke through the fog in Dan’s brain, and they smiled.

               “Maybe you’re headed _my_ way,” was all they could think of in response.

               Peter leaned in close, the whisper sending pins and needles shooting through Dan’s entire body, “the secret rodeo two blocks west of the city hall subway stop?”

               A choked snort slipped out as Dan slapped a hand over their mouth.  Peter guffawed, leaning back as if satisfied.  After a moment to gather themselves, they managed a, “what is that, some sort of flop sequel to _Fight Club?_ ”

               “Hey, now, there already was a sequel, and it wasn’t bad.  This one, though?”  He scratched at his chin, thoughtful.  “Call it a spin-off.  An alternate universe perhaps—”  at that, he stopped.  “Now _that’s_ a thought.”

               “What?  Alternate universes?  Like in my fanfiction.”  He blinked, turning to give them a _look._   “Yeah, I wrote stuff.  So what?”  They _tried_ to not be defensive, they tried so hard.

               “We’re—that’s a whole new can of worms that you’re thinking you can just seal back up and I’m here to _tell you_ that I am going to find your _Livediary_ and read _everything_ that you have _ever_ posted--but that is _not_ what I was—alternate universes!  That’s what I was saying.  Parallel world stuff.  You think they have _Fight Club_?”

               “In an alternate universe?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Uh,” Dan’s face scrunched up in thought.  “Probably?  Infinite universes, infinite possibilities.  It’d probably be called like, _Spar Club_ or something.  Written by a…Chuck, uh, Dalahniuk.  Be about a Skylar Durden.”  Dan was running out of jokes, “I uh, haven’t actually read _Fight Club_.”  They finished, sheepish.

               They trailed off for a moment, waiting for a response.  When one didn’t come, they looked over to see the most intense expression of _wonder_ on Peter’s face.  “That means there is _definitely_ a cowboy version of it in another universe.  _Fight Saloon_.”  He spoke with such _reverence_ , Dan wasn’t sure if this was still a bit or something genuine anymore.  But they were laughing too hard to respond either way.

               Then his eyes met their own, something shining and nearly _manic_ and all too pleased with himself.  This was good.  This was _so good_.

               And then he had to go and say, “Your laugh is wonderful, I love it.”

               Heat crept up Dan’s neck and their mouth snapped shut, eyes wide.  Oh.  “H-ha, thanks, man.”  Had they never laughed like that before?  Were they really that dour _that_ often?  It was just a comment, a normal human observation that meant a drop in the ocean of their life.  It wasn’t supposed to matter so much.

Why did figuring themselves out have to make this all feel _different?_ Because it wasn’t different!  Nothing had changed between them and Peter except now Dan had a name what it was they were feeling.  This should be fine!

               He noticed, of course he did.  “Oh, no, I mean it!  Is that weird?  That was weird, wasn’t it?  Now it’s—this is—it’s weird,” he gestured between them.

               “It’s—no, it’s really…nice.  Good.  Very good.  You’re good,” they scrambled to respond, to keep it moving forward from the awkward moment where their heart skipped that beat, where it had dared to fall for wishful thinking.  And Dan smiled, hoping the blush wasn’t _too_ evident, and he smiled back, the slightest pink tinged his cheeks, and it all squeezed a little too much at Dan’s heart.

Because nothing was different, not really.

               _Yeah, right_ , was all Dan could think.

              

               After insisting that his schedule as a freelancing photographer was flexible, he convinced Dan to show him the theatre he’d heard so much about.

               “So _this_ is where the magic happens?”  He gave them a wink as they paused on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance.

               They beckoned for him to follow them down the alleyway next to the building, replying with, “ _some_ thing sure happens here, I _suppose_ you could call it magic.”

               “Of _course_ the one who _makes_ all the cool stuff happen would downplay it,” he nudged them with an elbow, “I’m sure it’s neat as heck.”  Dan stopped to fish in their bag for the key fob to the back door.

               “I _guess_ ,” they paused, hand pawing past their wallet, sketchbook, other sketchbook, _note_ book, five (empty) pens, _keys, finally_ , “I love it,” they pulled out the jangling mass of plastic and cut metal, grinning wide at Peter.  “Thanks for the time this morning.  It was good.”

               “Of course, Dan,” his returning smile looked a little confused.  Sad, even.  Dan looked away.

They pulled open the door, resting it on their foot.  “I—hmm,” Peter’s eyes were strangely bright, and his… _demeanor_ , in general, hadn’t faded since their strangely affectionate exchange earlier, and the way he _looked_ at them when they paused to have the last word was almost…adorable.  “We’re opening Coriolanus this week, and I can’t do first night but…if you’re free the next night, would you…”  _Ask.  Just ask.  Take the goddamn initiative, your therapist will praise you for years_.  “Would you wanna go?”

               The longer Peter went without answering, the greater the chill that ran through Dan’s veins.  “It’s just, I did offer, once upon a time--?”

               “No, no no no no no, you did, it’s, uh,” was he _blushing?_   “I’d, I would love to.  That sounds great.  I’ve never heard of Cor…Coriolis?  Like the effect on the sun?”

               Dan smiled a bit at that.  “Nah it’s, uh, Coriolanus?  It’s Shakespeare, uh, definitely underrated.  I can work out comps by the end of today, if you’re sure.”

               “Very sure.  Most sure.  The absolute greatest amount of sure.”  He leaned toward them, slightly.

               Unfortunately, they both had to remember the world was still moving on around them.  “I, really have to get to work now,” Dan smiled, sheepish, bracing for the stumbling end to the conversation.

               He stepped back.  “’Course, sorry to keep you.  Uh, thank you.  For…for figuring thing’s out with—for letting us figure things out.”

               They smiled, “No worries.  See you later, Peter.”  They tried not to duck too quickly through the door.  That’d look like they were running away, or something.

 

               Of _course_ , Carrie and Miranda had been listening.

               “Was _wondering_ why the door was open for so long!  The alarm was about to go off.”  Carrie nudged Dan.

               “Our—that’s not even how our door alarms work!”

               “Should be, if you’re going to make a habit of holding it open so long.  The theatre can hardly keep any heat as is.”

               “That’s the building’s fault for having such _shitty heating_.”  They began making their way to the backstage storage so they could put their bag down.

               But Miranda knew what Dan was doing.  “Mmm, no, no, no.  You’re avoiding the _real_ subject.”  She waggled her eyebrows, “that your neighbor?  The one that’s been sending you into tizzies every time you meet?”

               They sighed, “I thought they were _moods_ ,” Dan grumbled, shrinking in on themselves as Miranda slung her arm over their shoulder.

               “No, no.  Two _very_ different things.  You have moods all on your own-- _tizzies_ , though,” they wandered into the carpentry shop, where everyone else was already working on their own projects.  “This neighbor man of yours is putting you into them almost _constantly_.”

               “Whatever you say, Miranda.”  They weren’t going to fall into this trap again.  “If I had something to admit, I would tell you.”

               “Now _that_ ,” she poked them in the chest, “is a lie and you know it, Danny.”  They gave her a sheepish grin and shrugged off her arm.

               “Let’s get to work before our TD actually notices I’m late this time.”

               Their friend gave Dan a _look_ , like _this wasn't finished_.  And Dan could only smile because no, it wasn't.

               It was only beginning.

 

               They got a text that night saying _I thought I was the only american that watched In the Flesh, oh my god._ And another, _PEOPLE WROTE FANFICTION FOR THE MIGHTY BOOSH ???_

Dan clapped a hand over their face, vowing to delete every page of writing that they had ever posted online.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I helped put on Coriolanus at a student theatre society in my semester abroad. I hold everyone there so dear to me. I wish this were longer, too, but I wish that for everything I write ever.  
> Thank you for reading, it means a lot to me.  
> I think I'm going to wrap this up fairly soon, though. I have ideas for other stories that I'm gonna start eventuallyyyyyyyy


	7. Stumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan panics a bit and vents a bit and small spats feel larger than life, like usual. Spider-Man tries to help and it works well enough.

Dan managed to sidestep thoughts of _you should figure this Peter stuff out maybe_ whenever the _feeling_ came up again.

               They were fine before it, they were fine now, just like they had with every person before.  It was fine.  They were _fine_.  Maybe, just maybe, they would get over it in time.

               “Hey.  You, me, Carrie, a few others from electrics?  Skye’s tonight.”

               Dan was too caught up in avoiding their own thoughts to say no.  “Sounds nice.  Be there round…sometime,” they shook their head.  “Wait, uh,” today was bad, actually.

               With the amount of energy taken up by trying to figure out _what_ they were feeling about Peter, thinking too much about wanting to hang out with him more, and probably their period starting soon, Dan was tired.  To put it more eloquently, _fucking exhausted_.  But they hadn’t been out with anyone in nearly two weeks—too long, even for Dan.  So after a moment of staring past Miranda’s shoulder, they said, “Yeah, yeah I can.”

 

               And it was _fun_ , at first, despite Dan feeling bad that they felt they didn’t contribute to the conversation enough, or in the right way, or…whatever their brain decided was the issue that night.  Letting it go, even for a little bit, was nice.

               “I think I’m…” they shook their head, fighting the temptation to lay it on the bar.  “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

               “Feeling about your hot neighbor, you mean?”  Their head shot up to look at Miranda’s smirk in profile as she polished off a shot of tequila.

               “You have a hot neighbor?”  Ethan poked his head around his girlfriend’s shoulder.  Dan’s head edged ever closer to the sticky counter.

               “Yeah, he’s hot, I guess?  And my neighbor,” Dan was bad at making those judgements; they thought everyone was hot.

               “Get it, Dan!”

               “Maybe I will,” the glare they were trying to level broke into a smirk.  Ethan only cackled.

               Miranda nudged their shoulder with her own, “I’m glad you’ve found a good neighbor.  I know—I know we give you a lot of shit about ‘being into’ him, or whatever, but you can tell us to fuck off and we will, you know?”

               They smiled, “yeah, I definitely know.  I—uh, thanks,” something tightened low in their stomach, “I think I might be.  Uh, 'into him,' though—but!”  They held up a hand before she could squeal, “I don’t want to…I don’t know, make a big deal out of it before…anything can even happen.”

               “Dan.  Dannyyyyyy,” Miranda’s shoulder was practically vibrating, “it’s gonna be _so_ fine, no sweat.  I've seen the way he looks at you,” she had a gleam in her eye that Dan could only describe as _proud_.

               "You've hardly even seen him look at all," she shushed them with a smack to the shoulder.

               "Well, then let me say he'd be a total _dumbass_ to not see everything amazing that you are."  Dan could feel their face flushing, fighting the urge to bury it in their sleeves.

               “Here’s to hoping I can even start it, much less handle it,” they held up their glass to Miranda’s.

               She met their toast, before saying, “you manage?  You get by fine?"

               "I'm not starving, and I'm pretty content, yeah."

               "And you're good, living on your own?  I just--I worry about you sometimes.”

               Something settled over the conversation, then.  Dan could sense a growing unease.  “I—yeah, I’m good, most of the time.  Rent’s not so bad I’m selling my organs, or anything.”

               “You know _why_ the rent is so cheap, Dan,” they focused on the glass set on the bar in front of them, feeling the roll of her eyes.

               “I mind my own business, and I’m not flashy.  I lock my doors and windows,” _and also have a vigilante for a neighbor with a penchant for visits._

“That’s not enough to stop some people, still.”

               “Well, I can’t really live in fear of every possible bad thing happening, right?  It would eat me alive.”  they snapped.  Not like they didn’t already do that anyway.

               “Yeah,” she leaned away from them, “I know.”

               They sighed, “I’m—I’m sorry.  I’m tired and—I know that’s not an excuse.  But I promise you, you don’t need to worry.”  And she nodded back, meeting their eye, but Dan could see the resignation, the decision that she wouldn’t ask again.  Everything felt cold.

               Going out tonight was a mistake.

               It’s not like Dan _liked_ hyperfocusing on things, not like they _liked_ worrying so much it drained them of energy to do anything else.

               And there it was.

               They were doing exactly that with Peter.

               The rest of the time at the bar passed in a blur, lost in thoughts a million miles away.  They pushed at their brain, to join Miranda and Ethan’s weird attempts at trick shots by the dart boards, or to break that tie in pool they had with Carrie.  They were so _tired._

               Dan hated most parts of being drunk, or even mildly intoxicated.  There was a grace period, though—the smallest window of _this must be what normal people feel like all the time_ as just the right amount of their inhibition fell away.  Further unraveling their vice grip on whatever made them feel in control?  Horrifying.  But to feel _okay_ , for one brief moment, without the mental back-and-forth of justification.  But it wasn’t there tonight.

               The kitchen couch seemed like the best option for now; being horizontal was too much of a commitment for Dan’s head.

               Of course, of _course_ , there was a knock at the window.

               They could ignore it.  They _wanted_ to ignore it.

               But they also wanted a chance to end the night on a better note than…everything that happened.

               Sliding open the window took a lot more focus than usual.

               “Howdy—whoa, hey, are you okay?” He slipped into a perch on the windowsill, leaning forward to peer closer at Dan.

               They scrunched up their face before giving him a shrug, “I, uh, can’t do anything right I think?”

               The eye panels of the mask widened, and at any other point Dan would have been intrigued, but now it just seemed…fake.  Everything was collapsing in on them, everything was meant to antagonize.

               “Hey, hey, Dan, hey, you do a lot of things right.  You’re good, you’re very good,” he took a step closer, holding out a hand to them.  To take?  To hold?

               His grip was warm and firm, and before they could think Dan was tugging lightly, pulling the vigilante closer, and he let them.  “I want to think that’s true, I really do, I…”  They pressed their lips together, tears welling up in their eyes.  “It always feels one step forward and four steps back with anything and everyone and—” there was _fire_ in their mind, screaming at the _vulnerability_.

               He didn’t say anything for a moment, and the turmoil in Dan’s head was reaching somewhere scary.  It was only when they tensed, to pull away from him, to _run_ , that he said, “you did a lot right with me, I hope you know that.  You—make good tea, and good drinks, and can make silly jokes about being a lifeguard while helping patch me up when I’m the one falling into your kitchen and bleeding all over your floor and you _did it all.  You_ did that stuff, when you didn’t have to.  Without a hitch, too.  So, please.  There’s no steps back with me.”

               And everything in their head just screamed _lies_ and _so what?_ “I’m so tired of— _thinking_ ,” Dan screwed their eyes shut, squeezing his hand as if afraid it would slip away.  “Can I…can we hug?”

               He breathed out, almost in…relief?  “Oh, I am certified in hugging.  I am very capable of that, yes.”

               Dan stood there for a moment, caught in the warmth of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and the fact that he not only liked them enough to visit regularly but _admired_ them, as the events of the night began smoothing out in their head.

               The worst of it was over.

               Things were going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man eventually tries and fails at making tea for Dan and they both say goodnight.  
> Not listed is the next day hangover, as well as Dan walking into work and profusely, needlessly apologizing for ten minutes for being a dickwad the night before, and Miranda apologizing for being too helicopter-parenty and they hug and then they have to make box beams out of cheap warped plywood or something.  
> This kind of extreme reaction that Dan had I was mostly associating with rejection-sensitive dysphoria, a common symptom of ADHD and something I struggle with more often than I'd like.  
> This feels too short again but I literally don't know what more I could add that wouldn't be some diminishing returns garbage.  
> More chapters to come, I have the date basically entirely written and then some HIGH STAKES STUFF and then probably The End will be in sight, thanks


	8. Coriolanus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Peter go to a show and make jokes and poke fun and it's all lighthearted japes and then cliffhanging

               _Deep breaths, right?_

               Dan raised their hand to knock at Peter’s door, shifting under the pressure of the tie at their throat, the binder around their chest.  _Why did they insist on dressing up like this?_

               But then he was opening the door with his own tie hanging off one shoulder, its dark swirling pattern of navy and purple stark against his pale blue shirt.

               “Hey, Dan!  Hey--!”  He stopped, taking a moment to look them up and down.  Up, again, down…his eyes swept across the line of their shoulders beneath the suit jacket.  Dan fought a smile.  “Uh…Come in, come in, I’m almost, uh…” he disappeared around the doorway to the bathroom (all of these flats were nearly identical).  “Just one more—minute…”

               They stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind them, trying not to think too hard about how nice Peter’s lines were in those deep grey slacks.

               He walked back into the hallway wearing a matching suit jacket, and Dan’s breath caught in their throat.  Well, then.

               He twisted two fingers into his collar, “something up?”  He made a face as he adjusted the fabric to cover the tie.

               “You—uh, very nice.  You look.  Very nice,” they managed, biting back the _wow, I want to draw you_ because that would’ve been a bit too obvious.  _Obvious?_

“Oh,” he straightened up with a flourish, pulling at his lapels and adjusting his coat, “why, thank you.”  He then paused, finally managing to get a good look at Dan’s outfit, eyes sweeping up the black blazer and deep purple vest.  “Goodness,” he managed, “so do you.”  It had been ages since Dan had had an excuse to dress up like this.  He held out his arm for them to take, mouth quirked up in a fond smile.

               He was warm against their side as he leaned down to murmur, “actually, you look fucking incredible,” thank _god_ the light was fading, hiding the immensity of the _red_ in Dan’s cheeks.

               And, well?  This night was going to be the death of them.

              

               One of Dan’s favorite restaurants was only a few blocks away from the theatre, so they settled on that for their dinner.

               “My college’s dining hall used to serve a paneer dish every now and then,” they mentioned offhandedly, poking at the curried cauliflower on their plate.  “I enjoyed it probably more than was healthy.”

               “What kind of—nonsense bougie school did you--?”  Peter held a hand over his mouth to keep bits of rice from flying out, squinting as he tried to swallow his food and keep talking.

               “That’s Ohio, baby.”  Dan smirked, rolling their eyes.

               “I don’t feel bad for joking about your home state anymore.”

               “Good, I don’t have to feel bad about joking about New Yorkers.”

               “Hey, now, only _we_ are the ones that can make fun of—” his eyes narrowed, impish smile gracing his face, “and, I see what you’re doing, you’re just going to turn that same logic on me,” he shook his index finger at them as they only smiled sweetly.  “You can’t deny that that lopsided square of cornfields you call a state is just…weird.”

               Dan only raised their eyebrows, and he rolled his eyes, admitting, “and I _suppose_ …my home has its fair share of weird.”

               “Can’t say Ohio has its own guy who sticks to walls and swings around high buildings,” Dan’s brow furrowed in thought, “suppose I also can’t say Ohio has enough high buildings to swing around on.  Maybe, like, ten.  And they’re in separate cities.”

               He quirked an eyebrow, “I just thought everyone from Ohio was _like_ that.”

               Dan blinked, before slowly raising their arm from the beneath the table, forming the punk rock symbol with their fingers.  “Pshew—” they pretended to fire a web at him in slow motion.  When it earned a chuckle, they leaned into the bit, waggling their eyebrows, “you’ve never seen me and Spider-Man in the same room.”

               His mouth fell open in mock surprise, “oh, were you planning on telling me something tonight?”

               But they were too busy laughing, habitually checking their phone for the time and jolting to attention, shoveling the rest of their food into their mouth.  Too busy to be coy with a response of, “maybe,” too busy to be sincere with a, “ _yes._ ”  But the end of a joke wasn’t the right time, wasn’t good enough.  Dan didn’t like to wonder about when it ever would be.

 

               They joked back and forth the entire time, from walking to the theatre, settling in their seats, shifting to turn more towards the other up until the house lights fell and the stage lit up.  Dan had picked their seats off to stage left, nearly front row.  The strange placement seemed to confuse Peter for a moment, earning Dan a raised eyebrow and nothing else.

After shifting for a minute to settle comfortably in the chilly theatre, Dan felt a warm knee press against their own.  No matter how much they moved after that, the contact remained.  They couldn’t help but feel something burn low in their gut.

 

               Peter was…well, _speechless_ was one of the more accurate terms to use in his reaction to the play.

               After a moment of furrowing his brow, opening his mouth, closing it again, letting out a laugh, all to find something to say, he began with, “so you were definitely right about it being underrated,” he looked over at them with a crooked smile, “It was…so much of it was unexpected, and a bit hard to follow at first…”

               “Generally how it goes with Shakespeare,” Dan nodded.

               “And that—I was wondering if you picked those seats on purpose, and then there were two men making out on stage _right_ next to me.  On top of one another.”  He didn’t seem bothered by it; quite the opposite.

They flashed a clueless smile at him.  “What a weird coincidence,” they shrugged.  After a moment, though, they grew serious again, “I’m really—I liked it too, I’m happy you enjoyed it.”  Their next breath came easier, like the information had eased a tension in Dan’s chest.  Bits and pieces of doubt still pushed at the edge of their mind—that he really hated it, it was dull and annoying, that _Dan_ was dull and annoying.  But Peter was _here_ , and _telling them so,_ and _would never lie to them about that_.

And oh, oh it felt good.

 

               He waited as they opened up their own apartment, to top off the extreme _rom-com_ situation of the night.

               “Thank you for the tickets, it was…amazing.  What you do is—I can’t even imagine the time and effort and all to make that—” he gestured out to an imaginary stage, “—make that _work_ and _happen_.”  He opened his mouth like he wanted to continue, all the while Dan’s brain filling that potential with endless, terrifying, _beautiful_ possibilities.  _Wishful thinking_ , they scolded themselves.  “You—you are… _so_ good.”

               And it might have been the echo of Dan’s own favored adjective, or the candid praise in general, that had Dan grinning so hard their face hurt.  “Thank you, Peter,” and all they wanted to do was say it again, over and over and over until Dan was _certain_ that he understood it.  Until they were certain he knew what it meant to them.

               It was the end of the night, though, and endings were the most important part—they couldn’t take a chance, not now.  Their smiles hung in the air between them for the moment, and Peter was saying, “have a good night, Dan.”

               That _warmth_ , that _fondness_ , way down deep in their chest—oh, how it flared.

               Dan laid in bed for over an hour, thinking over every moment of the evening with a _smile_ , rather than a critical eye.  A nice change of pace.

               They had planned this, they had pushed it forward.  Dan had managed to invite their neighbor out to a show and it worked out and they followed through and it was _good_.  They couldn’t remember the last time they’d even _tried_ that.

But there was something else, too, their conversation at dinner.  While what they had said about Spider-Man was a joke, there was an inverse to it that also held true: Dan had never seen Spider-Man and Peter Parker in the same room at the same time.

 

               And then?  There was _that_ night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaayyyy sorry it's been a little longer. I'm not fully happy with this chapter but I think if I undertook any more endeavors to edit it I would burn it to the ground and start over.  
> Dan is basically me. Sorry about that.  
> This story has lost its momentum with me, which is frustrating and a bit saddening. It's still mostly done! I just don't think it'll go much further anywhere after its conclusion. Which is fine!  
> Also I've rediscovered my intense love of Naruto so if any of y'all want to join me in that special hell feel freeeeee


	9. Bump in the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things! Don't worry, they don't last too long.

               And then there was _that_ night.

               It was late, Dan coming home from karaoke, like they did after work _every_ Friday.  The streetlights were dim and they hadn’t seen another person in several minutes.

               The low light didn’t stop the dull glint of the gun held at the side of the figure now blocking Dan’s path.  They were too far away to apprehend, not that any amount of training would prepare them for the now _very real_ situation where Dan found themselves.

               “Please, ma’am, don’t make this difficult.”  _Who’s difficult here?_ The unhelpful thought strayed across Dan’s mind as they put out their palms before slowly moving to take the bag off their shoulder.

               Of course, even then, it couldn’t be that easy.  _Some_ thing in the dark, some rat or bin or _whatever_ , crashed in the stillness of the night, and suddenly Dan had the butt of a gun rammed into their chest, then once more into the side of their head and they went down.  _Missed the temple, hope._   A foot sunk into their abdomen once, twice, and then nothing.

               Dan didn’t move, counting up to a minute.  Two.  _What if he came back_?  Their bag only had three socket heads, a crescent wrench, ten dollars cash, and two sketchbooks.  Disappointing haul for a mugger, honestly.

               A distant shout echoed its way back to them, then, exclamations abruptly choked off.

               Things were hazy, even as Dan opened their eyes to see their bag set down in front of them, with rather toned calves attached to whatever was blocking out the streetlight above them.

               “Hey, Dan, it’s me, it’s Spider-Man, I’m here, you’re safe now.”  He knelt down, hands hovering over Dan’s form.  “The guy is all wrapped up, disarmed, the police have been called.  It’s fine.  You’re fine.”  The way the vigilante kept talking and jumble of thoughts in Dan’s head led a train of thought down _emergency responder_ and they found themselves mumbling something incoherent in response.

               “Rescue a…distressed swimmer?”  His head cocked, before deciding questions were for later.

               “Talking’s good, that’s good.  Keep talking, you’re doing so well, _Christ_ I hope you don’t have concussion.”  His hand reached up to rub along the top of his head, like he would with hair if there weren’t a mask.  It then occurred to Dan: he was _freaking out_.  Spider-Man was nervous, was very obviously worrying about them.  And it was affecting how he was dealing with a situation that was _routine_ in his line of work.

               It hurt, _fuck_ , their head hurt, but the gun had missed their temple, but pain radiated out from a spot along their hairline, just above it.  _Near thing._   He’d mentioned a concussion?  That wasn’t good.  “No hospital, don’t want—can’t afford right now…” Dan curled in on themselves, breathing suddenly an immense task.  “You can’t see me like--!”

               He shook his head, “Dan, I’m—I’ll get you home, I’m picking you up now.  We’re—I should—” he sighed, “I won’t take you to the hospital yet, I promise, but if things get worse...” Strong arms were snaking beneath their form, gentle even as they were squarely lifted from the pavement.

               Their surroundings faded in and out as Spider-Man carried them home, but the entire way was smooth as butter.  This guy knew how to give a comfortable lift.

               And then they were on the fire escape, and the window was opening (Spider-Man grumbled about _lock your goddamn windows when you leave home_ ), and they were laid out on the couch in the kitchen.

               Dan was tired.  God, _so_ tired.  But before finally succumbing to sleep and leaving the now-comforting sight of the red and blue suit, they managed to mumble, “you’d be…a good lifeguard, Mr. Spider.”

 

               Dan opened their eyes to sunlight streaming into the kitchen, and a mug sat on the table.

               Their head hurt like _hell_.

               “Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” a voice wafted through the open window.  “Went a bit too hard last night,” he slipped into their flat as Dan sat up on the couch.

               “Yeah, uh…thanks,” a bag of frozen strawberries was set on the table in front of them.

               “Head okay?”  Without waiting for an answer, he settled next to Dan on the couch, looking into their eyes.  “What day is it?  Who’s president?”

               “Don’t make me answer that one,” They edged as far away as the couch armrest would allow.  “Head just hurts a shit ton.  I’m used to it.”

               “Being mugged?”

               “Head pain.  Get migraines all the time.”   The two were similar, at least.

               He tilted his head back, “right.”  The silence stretched on as he looked like he wanted to say more.  Maybe Dan _wanted_ him to say more.  Wanted him to say anything, at all.

               But the ache was doing its job, making everything irritating and bad, and Dan was torn between the comfort and _safe_ feeling of Spider-Man and just dealing with everything on their own, without expecting anyone to tell them how.

               Is that what they thought Spider-Man would do?

               “Can I ask one thing?”  His voice was much softer, now, and all Dan wanted was to say _no_.

               They settled on, “no guarantees,” and sunk further into the couch.

               “What are your pronouns?”

               The question was so out of the blue, Dan could hardly react.  Once recognition filtered through the haze of their headache, something akin to _refreshing_ settled in their brain.  “I go by they, them, theirs.  Um,” they looked over at Spider-Man, “what are yours?”  It was only fair.

               He cocked his head, like he was silently asking _really?_ But after a moment he said, “he, him, his?  Yeah.”  He nodded.

               “Thank you for asking,” they mumbled.  He let out a strangled laugh.

               “Took me long enough, I bet.”  Oh, that _fondness_ Dan was feeling, that was _dangerous_.

               “You got there eventually,” they smiled, faltering at the twinge of pain it brought.

               Spider-Man leaned forward to grab the makeshift ice pack, “I’ll leave you to rest.  I’m—glad to see you’re taking this all in stride,” Dan recalled his near-panic the night before and felt a pang of sympathy.  When had feelings got so deeply embedded in their friendship?

He seemed to remember something, then, adding, “hey, I know you probably know this, but…be more careful at night?  I can’t always be there, and…well, you just…never know.”

               Dan nodded, “Yeah.  Thank you for, um, everything.”

               With a jerk of his head and some finger guns, Spider-Man was slipping out through the window and leaping off the fire escape into the city.

               They didn’t know what to do with themselves, then.  Slapping a hand across their face, they peeked through fingers at their phone to check the week’s schedule.  Fuck.

               How did you even broach the subject of _hey I have to take off work today, I got mugged last night and got pretty banged up haha?_

They wanted to tell the truth—really, they did, but…that was attention, that was making it a _big deal_.  It _was_ a big deal, yes, but…there was always a _but_ , and Dan didn’t like any of the feelings that rose in their stomach when faced with bringing up _this_ kind of truth with someone.

Settling on an apologetic email to their TD, with an excuse inspired by their earlier mention of migraines, Dan decided it would be good to at least try to eat something.

Five minutes later, some YouTube series was running in the background and a few eggs were sizzling in a pan on their hob, even the muted scent of oil settling as unease in their gut.

               Even after a few hours, though, Dan was torn—the thought of going out was sending pulses of pain through their already aching head, but they couldn’t stay still all cooped up inside their flat.  Aspirin had taken care of most of the pain, but light was still a bit too bright and smells were putting their stomach on edge.

               Eventually, they forced one foot in front of the other, closing the door to their apartment behind them.  No turning back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really shows that I've never been mugged and also don't like waffling with characters so this chapter feels just.......hmmmmmm, when it comes to Accuracy.  
> I don't like writing bad feelings so sorry if it shows in the writing.  
> Good things to come!! Promise!!!


	10. floodgates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's numbness quickly fades and wow emotions happen

               Dan let out a sigh of relief when they found Peter sitting in a booth at the café they visited on their first outing.  Fighting down the wave nausea from the mix of smells all around them, they slid as smoothly as they could into the worn vinyl seat, and leaned in to whisper, “hey.”

               And _shit_ , he looked like…well, like shit.  Something must have bungled his day already, if the failed attempt to hide his frown at them was anything to go by.

               “Why are you--”  He blinked, before his shoulders hunched and he pressed his palms flat on the table.  “Jesus, Dan, what the fuck happened?”  His eyes were trained on the black-and-blue stretching across Dan’s cheek.

               There was something… _off,_ with the way he mentioned it.  Dan couldn’t identify it, couldn’t describe what made it feel disingenuous.  But he seemed _very_ upset, whether it was an act or no.

               “Oh, uh, ran into someone, hit my head.  No big deal, Spider-Man was there.”  Peter only looked more alarmed at that.  “What?  It turned out okay.”

               “It’s—what, you got _mugged?_ ” When Dan didn’t deny it, his gape only grew.  “Dan!”

               “I’m _fine--!_ ”

               “You’re not—you got _hurt_ , that’s not fine!”

               “I’m up and about, and alive!”  They should have known better than to fight him on this, but he hadn’t _been_ there, he had _just learned about this_.  He didn’t know what had happened.  Why was he getting _angry_ , of all things?

               “You just as easily couldn’t have been,” he hissed, “Spider-Man won’t always be able to save the day.”

               “You think I don’t know that?”

               “I _know_ you know that.”

               “Then what’s the issue?”

               “I—I don’t know, you rushed through explaining like it’s not serious.”

               “It happened, it’s over.  All I can do is be more careful next time.”

               “Okay!  Good!”  He put his hands up.  “We’re all trying to be better.  Glad good ol’ Spider-Man could know to be there.  I don’t know why I doubt the guy, I’m just worried he might be…I worry sometimes,”  Peter leaned his chin on the palm of his hand, eyes wandering to stare out the window.

               Dan bit their lip.  “Do you talk to him about it often?”  He eyes glinted coolly as he looked over at them.

               “You gonna pick my brain about it now?  To, what?  Keep arguing?”

               They rolled their eyes.  “No.  Damn it, Peter, it’s just…you seem worried about Spider-Man, and if he’s able to, you know.  Keep doing what he’s doing.  He seems worried about it too.”

               There was a beat of silence, during which Peter cycled through a range of facial expressions, settling on mild surprise.  “Does he talk to _you_ about it?”

               Oh.  Right.  They hadn’t told Peter about the vigilante’s new favorite hangout spot: Dan’s apartment.  “He, uh, visits me?  For some reason?  It’s—not like it isn’t fun or good, I just don’t get why he does.  But sometimes he seems down on his…well, feeling like he’s doing anything at all.”

               Peter looked away again with a shrug, “It’s a lot of…it’s a lot.  Can’t imagine the toll,” there was a finality in his tone that Dan suddenly didn’t want to press.  ‘A lot’ was correct, for everyone’s situation at this point.  Dan was tired of it too.

               “It’s one thing to be…hmm,” Dan set their chin on crossed arms, “I don’t know what he sees in my company that keeps him hanging around.  Or what _you_ see in it, for that matter,” they looked Peter in the eye.

               Something flashed across his face for the briefest moment—guilt?  Fear?  Maybe just pity.  “Because you’re great?  And a delight to be around?  You’re not afraid to call me on my bullshit—no, no, gotta stick with positive things.  Affirming things.  Okay, um,” he steepled his fingers beneath his chin.  “You’re my neighbor which, like it or not, is a very important factor, you’re very smart and funny, and I like you because you’re very good and kind and make me want to be better.  And I bet,” he poked them on the nose, “I bet Spider-Man sees the exact same things.”

               “I just…I still don’t get _why_ ,” Dan buried their face deeper into their forearms.

               He determinedly maintained eye contact with them, though.  “Sometimes you don’t get to know.  Sometimes things happen and it all ends up really, _really_ good.  And at that point you can’t go looking for reasons because you’ll always think you don’t deserve it.  And then you start pushing people—pushing it _all_ away.” 

His eyes were shining, now.  Dan could feel the sting of tears in their own, and they were wondering how many times Peter had to learn those lessons like Dan did.

               They sniffed.  “Usually…knowing something and feeling it to be true happen…separately.”  They recalled that first conversation with Spider-Man, trying _really hard_ not to cry and failing miserably.  The floodgates broke, and the fears Dan couldn’t identify, everything they had _felt_ last night—all of it was finally bubbling to the surface, and the waterworks began.

               Peter, though, he was in as good of shape as Dan, snot dribbling down to his chin.  “God, fucking.  _Damn_ it, Dan.  I am going to tell you so _fucking_ often how important you are until you believe it.”  He grabbed four napkins from the dispenser on the table, haphazardly smearing them on his face to clean it.

Dan let out an ugly laugh, mucus clogging up their face and throat.  “You don’t have to do that—no--”  Peter glared at them, as if daring their protest, before shoveling food into his mouth.  “Too many people have been comforting me lately—” their mind touched briefly on the talk Spider-Man had given them only days before.  That _guilt_ flickered across Peter’s face again.

               “Come on,” he threw a few bills onto the table before grabbing Dan’s hand with his own.  “We’re gonna have a fucking _great_ day and you’re gonna _love_ it.”

               And wow, there was that feeling of warmth again.  A _fondness_ , quickly growing out of control into something they hadn’t felt for another person in a long while, beyond even this crush.  Elated, terrified, Dan couldn’t think about anything but Peter’s rough palm against their own.

               They had been walking for few minutes, now, Peter still leading them along.  “So,” Dan smirked, “Spider-Man is our neighbor?”  Peter made a strangled hiss, before bursting out laughing.  “What?”  They glared at the man, his face now scarlet.  “ _What?”_

               He straightened up, said, “it’s nothing,” to Dan’s utter frustration, and then kept walking.

               And still, _still_ , his hand firmly held theirs.

 

               They had found a soccer game going on in Central Park, which gladly accepted the both of them.  Peter left Dan for a moment to wander over to the other team, conversing quietly with whomever seemed to be the leader.  After a moment, he beckoned them over.  “Same team, you and I,” he smiled at them, “let’s show ‘em our unstoppable combos that we’ve been working on,” he raised his voice, nearly shouting, much to Dan’s chagrin.  The few people that heard only laughed.

Dan could feel the twinge of headache, pushing on the edge of their thoughts.  Hopefully it wouldn’t hinder their already rusty soccer skills.  Several minutes passed back and forth, Peter playing a strong midfield, Dan staying close to the back of their side as defense.

               It had to lead to a confrontation, of course.  Every time— _every time—_ that Dan took control of the ball, Peter was there to steal it.  After a particularly impressive feint, he was weaving out of their way with ease, a laugh escaping as he slipped by.  “Who’s an old man now?”

               After an hour of near nonstop play, Dan collapsed on the ground, soon joined by a few of the others they played with.

               “Your friend there a former pro or something?” They grinned.  “Gave us all a workout.  Haven’t played against someone like that since our college team.”

               Dan looked over at Peter, who seemed to be fending off someone trying to get him to commit to their recreational team.  Both of them seemed to be fighting a losing battle.  “I don’t know, really.  He’s mentioned enjoying the occasional game, but never playing organized.”  Peter hardly ever seemed excited about moving more than was necessary, most of the time, but Dan had to agree: he had a finesse and grace that he apparently kept hidden.

               “Oh, shit, I didn’t even notice that!”  They gestured to the bruise on Dan’s face, “Christ, why’d you play with that kind of injury?”

               “It’s—really, it’s fine.  I, uh, bumped my head yesterday, and just bruise easily.  Nothing big, nothing bad enough to keep me off my feet.”  Dan gave a sheepish smile, feeling soreness and exhaustion settle that much deeper into their bones.

               They didn’t look convinced, but hey, Dan wasn’t their problem.  “If you’re sure.  Take care of yourself.”

               “Thanks, you too.”  They fell into more idle chat, asking each other what they did when not playing soccer, what their deal in New York City was.  Dan felt their phone vibrate, seeing the time along with the notification.  “Oof, it’s getting late, I should head out.”  They stood up, “it was good to meet all of you, thanks for the good game.”

               “Hey, this is a weekly deal, if you want to play again.  We can add you to a group chat for these.”  They took out a notebook and pen from their backpack, “I’m Josh, by the way,” he tore off his info and handed it to Dan.

               They pocketed the paper, “I’m Dan, pleasure,” with a parting smile, they extricated Peter from his painfully awkward conversation and told him, “Food tiiiiime,” he raised an eyebrow at their grabby hands, “something with lots of bread.”

               He only laughed and bumped their shoulder with his own, “can’t go wrong with bread.”

 

               Dan should have known the bruises would attract even more attention than they’d bargained for.

               The next day at work, Carrie was already smacking them on the shoulder before profusely apologizing, “Fuck, you’re _injured_ and I just _also_ hit you!  Danny!  Why didn’t you ask one of us to walk with you?”

               “I didn’t wanna be a bother,” they flinched when Carrie threatened another smack.

               “Wanting to feel safe is never a bother, especially not at night, with you looking like…” she stopped.  “Sorry.”

               “It’s…it’s fine.  I just need to…take it easy, for a while,” they wanted to say more, to try to reassure Carrie and Miranda, and in some capacity reassure themselves again.  But the subject was already so _tiring_ because there wasn’t anything more to learn from it.  It had happened, it was done.  Why couldn’t they move on?

               As they broke for lunch Miranda followed them to the nearest bodega.  “How’re you handling things?”  She picked up Dan’s _moods_ better than anyone.

               But questions of _are you all right_ were becoming Dan’s entire life, now, so they just shrugged and said, “time is all I need, I promise.  I got lucky, and I’m grateful, and I can’t really place a lot of these feelings anywhere except work and staying alive.”  Things didn’t work out neatly like in the movies, feelings the least of all.  They looked back at their coworker, “Ethan settling well?”

               She smiled, “he and roommate are working through some ground rules, but yeah.  It’s great.”

               They settled into silly stories of weird neighbors and odd landlords, and things started shifting back to something like normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Some of this conversation feels stilted and unrealistic but I think it covers all I really wanted to deal with regarding Dan's whole, like, OCD tendencies. Irrationally harsh criticism and all that. It's really hard to bring that sort of stuff up, so at an emotional watershed moment like, maybe, post-life-threatening circumstances, talking to two people who turn out to be the same person so they know all of what you share with both, both those parts of yourself, and they Get It and can try to give advice without being too invalidating  
> that was a rambling mess, but I hope the story isn't.  
> I just want Dan to be happy and they're constantly making rules about why they're not good enough to deserve that because something something [expand thread] and that's why capitalism is ruining humanity  
> I'm just really excited about the next chapter because I talk about Classics, my One True Aluminum Love


	11. Oh, Wow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have settled, and it's safe again. The right time, maybe? (It never feels right enough, Dan).

               _Got pizza tonight.  Wanna share and watch bad romcoms?_

               Dan had to smile at how easy it was to text him, now.  When had that happened?

Within three minutes there was a knock on Dan’s door, with Peter leaning a hand on the doorframe as they opened it.  “I’m partial to _Love, Actually_.”

               He was wearing worn jeans and a grey shirt, with a hoodie hanging off of one shoulder, like he’d rushed to pull it on.

               “Hey, I was just getting out plates, you eager beaver.”

               He raised his eyebrows, shutting the door behind him, “you use _plates?_ I remember when my life was as put-together as yours.”

               “Mmm,” they nodded slowly.  “I’ll have you know I’m just very, _very_ good at pretending.”

               There was a dramatic gasp from behind them as they reached into the cupboard.  “What!  I was so ready to cite you as a good influence, a role model!”

               With a laugh, they brushed past him to set everything down on the table in front of their kitchen couch, before running to their room to grab their laptop.

               “So I’ve never actually seen _Love, Actually_ ,” they led in with it, loading up Netflix and looking for the film.

               “It’s a good time!  Good cast, silly premise, weird romance.  Christmas, which is always funny for me…” Dan saw him roll his eyes with a smile.  “I don’t want to work it up for you to be disappointed.  Though the commentary will be hilarious no matter what,” he nudged them.

               Somewhere along the way they had shifted closer together, nearly touching from shoulder to knee.  Even through the blankets Dan could feel the _warmth_ , and no matter how much they shifted, Peter never moved away.

               Every nudge and comment earned a snicker from Peter, and Dan frowned at the ridiculous premise, “this is so corny.  And _straight._ ”

               “It’s no _Coriolanus_ , that’s for sure,” Peter agreed, and the mention of Dan’s work sent a flutter through their stomach.

               They struggled to keep their grin under control.  “Just what this movie needs.  Gay Romans.”

               “Oh, you should write that, add it to your _Livediary_ ,” Peter poked them in the shoulder, “right next to your Radioactive Man fanfiction.  _Love, Actually_ but instead everyone is queer and also Roman.”

               Dan rubbed a hand over their chin, pointedly ignoring the jab at their writing from fifteen years ago.  “Republic or Empire?  I want Augustus to be there…Maecenas and Livia would _fill_ it with intrigue…and Antonia Minor and Julia?  _Oh_ man…” They looked over to see Peter staring at them with a… _strange_ expression, was the only way they could describe it.  “What?”

               “You’ve found your true calling,” he chuckled, “rewriting everything, but Classics this time.”

               “Didn’t I already tell you?  I got my degree in Gay Romans.”

               “Knowing the kind of school you went to, I wouldn’t be surprised if they let you officially call it that.”

               “If fucking _only_ ,” Dan imagined a cartoonish gleam in their eye when they levelled a grin at him, all too aware of the press of his arm along their own.

               “I think you would somehow pull it off, spectacularly,” it took a second, before Dan realized Peter was talking about their apparent new project.  “You’d produce it—designs, lighting, carpentry, all that, and—and open on Broadway.  Sondheim would shake your fucking hand, stepping down from working, ‘they just do it better than me,’ when asked for comment.  Shakespeare would come back as a ghost and thank you for continuing his legacy.”  All the while Dan’s breath caught, as he leaned closer with every word, making good on his promise that day in the diner.  “I think you would be incredible.”

               Dan blinked, then, feeling a few tears leak out along their cheek.  “ _I_ think—I think it’s really ridiculous how often I want to kiss you, like right now,”  The words were out of Dan’s mouth before their brain had even registered that they were speaking.  Oh.  Oh _no_.

               It was almost slow motion, the transformation of Peter’s expression as his brows raised and his face grew _beet_ red.  “Oh, wow,” he mumbled.  “You know, I--wow, uh, there’s--?”  Like a fucking _train wreck_. 

               And the incongruity with his behavior, his tone, and how he was reacting—it pulled them in two directions fast enough to give whiplash.  “You, have…there’s, uh.  You can’t.  There’s—you have someone else.  Something else.  An else.”  Dan reined themselves back in, as best they could, but the ice running through their veins was making moving and thinking and feeling anything but _you fucked up big time_ mighty difficult.

               But oh, he was shaking his head and leaning in, “I had, for a while.  I thought…I wanted it so badly, with—with her, but—” Dan was only half-listening, watching him ramble, their hopes caught in limbo, “—but it was eating us alive, and a while ago I finally realized, so I—I _made_ myself move on and I…I’m sorry, that’s not reassuring.  I should stop.  Saying things.  Never mind about that,” the window was closing, Dan could feel the moment teetering on the edge between something—something new and good, or something new and really, really awkward.  “I, uh, I wanted to say something for the longest time...”

               There was a _but_.  There always was a _but I don’t feel the same as you_ , and Dan was beginning to convince themselves that what they were feeling had been all wrong too.

               “Hey,” Dan opened their eyes to Peter’s face, mere inches away.  “I—fuck, to be honest?  I was hoping so hard but didn’t think you felt…like I realized I did about you.  Didn’t think you felt the—the way you just said you did, and—fuck, just come here?”  And his hand was cupping just below their jaw and his nose brushed theirs.  He paused once more, whispering, “is this okay?”

               Dan pressed into his hand, responding to the question by leaning forward to finally, _finally_ kiss Peter Parker.

               Almost immediately, they broke away, unused to the feeling—how long had it been since they’d kissed someone?  Their eyes met Peter’s, shining in the light from the monitor screen, all crinkled at the corners from his _smile._   A smile that Dan could feel against their own.

               Another breath, and then they were whispering to him, then, “these past few months I’ve—thought about how I felt because it’s been _so_ good, being around you and making silly jokes and—and _looking forward_ to it,” and his mouth was back on theirs, awkward through their grins.

               And he was whispering back, “you’ve helped me more than I could ever explain,” another kiss, “you are… _so_ important.”

               Somewhere along the way Peter’s other hand found Dan’s, lacing their fingers and holding them up to his chest.

               Dan broke away for air, feeling Peter’s arm move around their back, solid and _warm_.  And, oh goodness, had it been a _while_ since they’d had intimacy like this with another person.

               “Uh, so you said it’s ridiculous how often you want to kiss me?”  He grinned against Dan’s mouth.

               “Peter,” they warned, “no ego trips right now,” their breaths were hot in the close quarters, and Peter only laughed as he kissed them again.

               “No, no,” he pecked the corner of their mouth in his pause, “I just wanted to say I felt exactly the same.”

               Oh, oh _no_.  It was cheesy and romantic and so absurdly _good_ feeling.

               “You’re incredible,” he murmured, nuzzling a stubbly cheek against Dan’s own.  They shivered at the rough texture.  He pulled away to fix them with a _devilish_ smirk.

               “Peter— _Peter!”_ He shoved his face into their neck, and the sensation felt like lightning shooting through Dan’s body.  Their hands were everywhere, first pressing against his chest and then snaking around to hug him closer.  Suddenly his hand was on their thigh and swinging Dan’s legs across his lap.

               They ended up in a tangle of blankets on Dan’s couch, before they started, “uh, we could, uh, take this somewhere…more comfortable?”  Peter froze, before his face broke out into a grin, eyebrows waggling wildly.

               “Oh, my god, _shut up_.”

               “I wasn’t talk--!”

               “ _Shut up_ and _stick to smooching, buckaroo_.”  His face was at their shoulder again, his snort vibrating through their chest.

               “ _Buckaroo,_ ” he snickered.

               His hand found theirs, lacing fingers and _warmth_ , and Dan pulled him up from the couch.  “C’mon.  You know these dinky flats, bedroom’s not far.”  His answering grin was so _dopey_.  “And, uh,” his shoulder was solid as Dan pressed against it with their own, “you’re incredible, too.”

               And, oh yes, the _gleam_ in his eyes as the words registered, as they searched Dan’s face for…whatever it was.  Sincerity, truth, life?  _Love?_   Like committing it all to memory, to complete the feeling, the experience.

               Dan cupped his cheek, thumb brushing along the frown lines, smiling against his mouth before whispering, “thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know what more to put into this so gods I hope y'all like it.  
> It's here! It's here!! IT'S HERE?!?!?!  
> Something felt off about where it got put in, like there should be more in between the Big Emotional Saving Scene and Now, but I just want em to smooch and admit they're happy thank you.  
> I don't know if I want to keep going after this, if i want an identity reveal? That would be good to tie up the whole Being Friends with Both Identities shtick but it's all, a toss-up right now.


	12. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since Dan has seen Spider-Man, and the last time was under...less than ideal circumstances.

               It was _incredibly_ warm in their bed, was the first thing they noticed.  The second was the weight along their waist, the hard muscle of Peter’s arm wrapped around them.  Right.

               Dan tried not to shiver, thinking about the…developments of the past twelve hours.  Wow.  _Wow._

               “Mmmmff,” they jumped at tickle of Peter’s stubble against the back of their neck.  He gave a low chuckle, nuzzling closer.  The shiver ran through their whole body, ending with Dan’s elbow burying in his gut.  “ _Oof._ ”

               “That’s what you get, mister,” they laughed out.

               “That’s a foul,” his arm left Dan’s waist as he reached up to rub at his eye.  “Hello,” he smiled as they twisted around to face him.

               They beamed right back, “hello.”  Like he could read their thoughts, he pulled them closer.

              

               It was all smiles that day on their way to the theatre, every thought pulling the corner of their mouth up until a grin was inevitable.  Infectious enthusiasm, like Dan hadn’t felt in years.

               Miranda _knew_.  Of course she did.

               “You figured it out?” Her elbow to Dan’s side was just a whisper.  When all they did was grin back at her, she proceeded to nudge them several more times, “way to fucking go, Danny.”

               They wanted to say more, wanted to tell her everything about it because she needed to understand its importance.  But there was also the _personal_ , the _secret_ , the feeling of _mine_ and _ours_.

               Luckily, they were saved from the struggle of deliberation when the shop TD walked through his office door and called everyone to a production meeting.  The shows must go on.

              

               Putting a name to things freaked Dan out.  It set expectations, unnecessary and stressful, that they consistently needed to work through and dismantle.

               With Peter it was hardly an issue.  The whole revelation _thing_ about their feelings for each other was…fairly innocuous.  Comfort was an established thing between them, a godsend for Dan’s anxiety.  The biggest difference was they just touched a lot more now.

               Reminders that someone was there, that they _cared_ —were always nice.  And Peter sure was good at giving those.

               Peter: _u deleted your livediary??  I wasnt finished reading it!!!  ;(_

Dan: _if u want to read my shitty fanfiction so bad I guess I can email u the word docs_

Peter: _yes please!!_

Dan couldn’t help the goofy grin whenever Peter sent them weirdly niche quantum physics memes, and they responded with equally niche ones for classical studies.

               Peter: _why are all these roman poets talking about bees so much??_

Dan: _it’s hip_

Peter: _writing about bees?_

Dan: _<https://youtu.be/C1RYSy55KtA>_

               Peter: _wh_

Peter: _dan what the fuck_

And so on.

 

               It had been a long day of taking in and sorting lumber shipments, and Dan just _knew_ tomorrow was going to be a pain for any sort of movement.  Sitting on the couch had been a mistake; now they were too comfortable to do anything else.

               Until there was a knock at the window.

               For the briefest moment, with everything that had happened in the past few weeks, Dan had forgotten about their visits from the friendly neighborhood vigilante.

               Another knock, faster and lighter this time.  They saw him do it, wincing with every movement.

               Oh, fuck.

               Dan was on their feet and opening the window before the burn in their muscles could begin to protest.

               “Hey, Dan, I’m—” he didn’t even finish before he was flopping through the window, landing like dead weight on the kitchen floor.

               _Oh, fuck._

               “I’ve got a bit of a—” the cut on his back was obvious as he laid prone, as was the amount of blood oozing from it, “a bit of an issue.”

               “Be right back,” Dan grabbed their first-aid kit from beneath the sink, before pausing—didn’t they have a few scrap rags in the back of their bathroom cabinet?  Large cover for a large cut, and they would be able to layer them if needed…

               A moment later they were snapping gloves onto their hands and shifting Spider-Man slowly to give them better access to the injury.

               Whoever, or _whatever_ had made this was aiming to kill.  Dan supposed they were a lot of the time, Spider-Man just managed to make it out relatively unscathed.

               It was _deep_ , and _wide_ , and they’d never dealt with something so serious before.

               “Dan…” the vigilante’s voice was wavering, “you okay?”

               Apparently they’d been staring for a while.  Shaking themselves out of it, Dan replied, “you’re almost bleeding out and asking if _I’m_ okay,” before pressing the towels against his wound.

               He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, “guess it’s a habit, by now.  You know how hard those are to break.”

               “Tell me about it.  Been a while, huh?”  Conversation might have been more to keep Dan calm than to keep Spider-Man conscious, but they weren’t about to admit that.

               “Yeah, I’ve been…busy.  Not the best,” he let out a low grunt of pain, “circumstances for…” he seemed to lose the sentence, breath hitching every time he inhaled.

               “Happens,” it had been almost a month, now that Dan thought about the last time they’d seen him.  Right after he’d helped them after…the mugging.  His helping them and subsequent lack of visits weren’t related, probably.  _Definitely_.  But the connection their brain made left something niggling at the back of their mind.  Spider-Man didn’t talk after that, and Dan was left to wrestle with their thoughts—about what Peter had said the day after they got attacked, about the vigilante’s connection to Peter in general.

               The two knew each other, of course.  They talked fairly regularly, usually about goings-on in the city, to keep Spider-Man up to date.  Peter acted like he knew the guy pretty deeply, though, so there _must_ have been some strong personal connection.  They both vouched for each other’s character whenever Dan was doubting one, or even when Dan was doubting _themselves_.

               Not to mention, they had both appeared in Dan’s life at almost exactly the same time.

               Dan lost track of time, clueless as to how long they’d been putting pressure on his cut.  It had been at least half an hour.

               “Talk to Peter recently?”  They asked, then.  Anything to keep them both awake, anything to stop the flood of _what-ifs_ in Dan’s head.

               His head twitched, “what was that?”

               Dan waited a few seconds, to make sure he wasn’t just taking a while to process, before saying, “Peter?”

               “What?”  Something cold curled in Dan’s gut, then.

               “Have you talked to him recently?”

               “I—have I—yeah, yeah, a few days ago,”  he sounded too out of it for Dan to take his answers very seriously, but…

               But for a moment, it seemed…

               “I’m taking the rags off, now, to check how bad it looks,” they didn’t wait for a sound of assent; the man was barely conscious anymore.  Dan needed to focus on being the caregiver.

               The bleeding had slowed immensely, but started welling up again once the towel was removed.  Slow enough to dress with a bandage.  Dan had to hope the guy’s advanced healing would forego the need for stitches.

               Cleaning, then bandaging.

               “I’m going to clean it, now, it might sting a lot,” they said to what they were pretty sure was an unconscious man.  He didn’t even react when they wiped at it with the hydrogen peroxide.

               Pressing firmly, they piled on the bandages before taping them tightly along his torso.

               “All right…” Dan bit their lip, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Peter?”

               Spider-Man snorted a bit, before mumbling out a, “yeah?”

               And, oh, oh no.

               “I need your help to get you over to the couch, okay?  You can sleep there,” Dan was just trying not to cry, at this point.  “And I need you to drink some water before you fall asleep again.

               “All—all righ’,” and he made no move to get up.  Dan maneuvered to grasp him underneath the armpits, trying to keep his back as steady as possible.

               “Spider-Man,” Dan said, more firmly, “just ten more seconds and you can lie down again, I promise.”

               He hissed in pain, but pushed off of the ground and wrapped an arm around Dan.

               “To the couch, now,” all that muscle was _heavy_ when he wasn’t supporting himself.  It was all Dan could do to not drop him on the cushions.  As fast as they could, they were back with a glass of water, holding his hand around the glass, “drink this,” and they held fast.

               Slowly, fumbling, Spider-Man pushed the mask past his mouth and drained the water.  “Thanks, doc,” his lazy grin slipped off his face as the man slumped over, once again passed out.

               Dan didn’t leave his side, unable to sleep despite the burning insistence behind their eyes.

               So they reached out to take his hand in theirs, trying to find enough solace in his steady breathing to make it through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello now that Spider-Verse is on the good Netflix I can rewatch it lots and get really emotional about it again and finally get motivation to keep writing it. Apologies for the late update but I think I'm gonna make the next chapter the end, the end. I was never good at planning the long-term.  
> But it will be finished, I promise you that. Thank you to everyone who read and kudosed and commented, you're fantastic and lovely and I think you're neat.


	13. Reconcile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting point.

               There must have been a drifting off, because there was a waking up.  It was bright out, already, Dan could see as they pried open their eyelids.

               And Spider-Man was gone.

               There was that cold, again, hollowing out the pit of Dan’s stomach.

 

               True to form, the previous day’s efforts left Dan’s muscles sore and clumsy.

               It was late in the morning when they woke up, but Dan was off work for the day.  They had things to do; commissions to draw, groceries to get.  Peter to text.

               He hadn’t responded to them since early yesterday evening.  Since long before Spider-Man fell onto their fire escape.

               They had things to do.

               Hours passed and Dan only curled tighter around the comforter on their bed.

 

               Their phone lit up with Miranda’s name, and they remembered _karaoke night_.  The light signaling a voicemail blinked intermittently after that.

               With a sigh, Dan unrolled from their stranglehold on a pillow, a loud grumble emanating from their stomach in the process.

               They didn’t have anyone to talk to about this.  About Peter, yes.  About Spider-Man?  Sort of, but they weren’t particularly available.  About both of them, at the same time?

               Things needed to get done, first of all…

               Dan flopped back down onto their bed.

               With a huff, they sat up again, shucking their bedclothes and pulling on a t-shirt and shorts, mussing their hair enough to seem passable.

               That diner ought to still be open…

               It took a near-unbearable willpower to not get up when they saw Peter walk in, looking tired, but otherwise healthy.  No sign of a terrible injury.  Considering what they knew of Spider-Man’s accelerated healing, that didn’t do much to weaken or strengthen their suspicion.

               Peter, though, seemed to know _some_ thing was up, as his shoulders hunched and his eyes flicked around the room until finally, finally they landed on Dan.

               The way his face grew stricken only made everything worse, and Dan could sense the tears pressing behind their eyes.  The sheer amount of possible explanations, or possible reactions Peter could have about Dan _knowing_ his secret cycled through their brain, and every outcome felt worse than the last.

               And for a moment, Dan hoped he would turn on a heel and walk back out, or sit at the counter with his back to their booth.  For a moment, Dan thought they were just as unprepared to talk about _things_ as Peter was.

               Because why should it go any differently?  Like every other relationship that had disintegrated as Dan stood and watched?  All for lack of trying?

               But _whose_ lack of trying?  Dan could spend their entire life arguing each point back and forth and never be certain.  The pressure behind their eyes turned into a burning, as their vision blurred with tears.

               “…Hey.”  His voice was quiet, tired, melancholy.

               Dan hastily took their glasses off to wipe away what had already leaked from their eyes.  Peter was sitting across from them, head bowed, nose inches from a mug of steaming coffee.

               “Hey,” they scrunched up one side of their mouth in an attempt to smile, silently cursing as more tears began falling.

               Where to begin?  How do you broach a subject like _being friends with your neighbor but also a vigilante that is your neighbor but actually they’re the same person?_

               “So we’re doing a show about a diner,” were the first words out of Dan’s mouth.  Peter blinked, but didn’t say anything else, so they continued, “it’s like a, weird, time-traveling diner.  And it’s—it seems interesting.  The cast is mostly women, and, it’s…” the explanation was quickly losing steam.  They mumbled out a final, “…and the set looks fun to build…”

               Even five minutes of pretending like they were fine was too much, and they buried their face in their hands.

               It was quiet at the table, then, the tension building in wait for an explanation that would probably never be enough.  Not for Dan, not for their convoluted perfectionism.

               “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

               And their brain was screaming to say _it’s fine_ , but they forced the words down.

               Peter took a shaking breath.  “The first time I fell onto your fire escape…and the second.  Those were accidents, I swear.  After that…well.”

               Dan remembered.  _Would you believe me if I said I was lonely?_

               “After that I didn’t have a reason besides _I wanted to_.  But then…we met as Peter and Dan.  And that first day in Central Park—I wanted to tell you.  The truth, I mean.  But we barely knew each other, on either side of…that divide.  I wasn’t sure yet.”

               Dan cupped their hands around their own mug of coffee, eyes following the stain it left around the rim.

               “And then it kept going and I became more and more sure that I wanted you to know, but…the secret became bigger and bigger.  And you—you got _hurt_ , and…everything was pointing toward me telling you, but made me more and more _scared._   But in the end I didn’t even have control over letting you know.”

               The amount of slack Dan ought to be cutting Peter was becoming muddled, obscured by the twisting and terrifying _depth_ of hurt and cold in their chest.

               “When I woke up this morning, and _remembered_ last night…you were still there.”

               Dan had to let out a snort, “it was kind of _my_ flat.”  _And you were the one that ran away,_ they couldn’t help but think.

               “Fuck, it _was,_ ” He leaned down to rest his forehead against the table.  “I—” speaking into his lap muffled his voice, “I really am sorry.  I—I understand if you don’t—don’t want…”  he turned his head so it was his cheek that laid on the table.  “If you want to stop this.”

               _That_ was a bit of a leap.  “It’s—it’s a lot?”  They hated that nerves turned their statement into a question, so they coughed and tried again, “it’s a lot.  I—I get it, you know?  Hiding bits of yourself because it’s dangerous, because you don’t know who to trust a lot of the time.  But what—what you _do_ , it’s different.”

               He was looking up at them from his place laying on the table, expression unreadable.

               Dan _really_ wasn’t ready for this.  “It hurts, yeah.  But it’s your secret.  And it—I’m dealing with how much it’s bothering me, that you didn’t tell me.”  They didn’t want to lie; it fucking sucked, reconciling that two of their closest friends and confidants were the same person.  “It’s—it’s gonna take a lot of time, probably.  But I don’t want to stop ‘this.’”

               His eyes were shining, now.

               “It’s been twenty-two fucking years and it still…manages to feel like this.  Telling someone, I mean,” he mumbled against the tabletop.

               “Trust me, I know.”

               “Whatever you need, I’ll try my goddamned _best_ to give it.”  He sat up, then, eyes _burning_ with resolve.

“Thank you for talking with me.  That’s all I wanted, right now.”  The hollow feeling remained in Dan’s stomach, as their brain wrestled between the _knowing_ and the _feeling_.

               “I’m sorry, again.  I—I wish I knew better, how to move forward from here.”

               “You and me both,” already, Dan could feel the anxious thoughts around the edge of their mind.  “Just…can we talk like this more?  It’s—it’s good.  Talking, figuring it out.”

               “ _Yes,_ god, _yes_ , please.  I—I’m so, _so_ sorry.”  He placed his hand halfway across the table, and Dan took it without thinking.

               “It’s going to be good, I’m telling you now,” Dan said, for themselves as much for Peter.

               And it was, Dan was going to make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello yes it is An Ending? I'm just trying to Finish This at this point. More stories are coming to me but alas they are not This One. Dan is me and I am trying so hard to be good enough for them.  
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone that read, commented, kudos'ed, and stuck with this story as I got my mental health back on track for the past seven or so months. It's been a wild ride and look out for more stuff in the future

**Author's Note:**

> Hello thank you for reading I have a lot of feelings I'm working out through both the MC and Peter Burrito Parker. Feel free to comment, feedback is heavily appreciated.  
> Also I hardly edit because I'm what the kids call Bad, so please, the feedback request is serious.


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